ZANE 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OP 
CALIFORNIA 
SANTA   CRU* 


SANTA     CRUZ 


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Gift  ol 


Robert  D.  Farquhar 


SANTA  CRUZ 


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THE   MAN  OF  THE   FOREST 


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THE  MAN 
OF  THE  FOREST 

A  NOVEL 


BY 

ZANE   GREY 


AUTHOR  OP 

THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT, 

THE  U.  P.  TRAIL,  WILDFIRE, 

RIDERS  OF  THE  PURPLE  SAGE.  ETC 


GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS  NEW    YORK 

By  arrangement  with  Harper  &  Brothers 


i  i 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Copyright  1920,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 
B-C 


TS 


THE   MAN   OF  THE   FOREST 


MAM    2" 


THE   MAN   OF   THE 
FOREST 


CHAPTER  I 

AT  sunset  hour  the  forest  was  still,  lonely,  sweet  with 
tang  of  fir  and  spruce,  blazing  in  gold  and  red  and 
green;  and  the  man  who  glided  on  under  the  great  trees 
seemed  to  blend  with  the  colors  and,  disappearing,  to  have 
become  a  part  of  the  wild  woodland. 

Old  Baldy,  highest  of  the  White  Mountains,  stood  up 
round  and  bare,  rimmed  bright  gold  in  the  last  glow  of 
the  setting  sun.  Then,  as  the  fire  dropped  behind  the 
domed  peak,  a  change,  a  cold  and  darkening  blight, 
passed  down  the  black  spear-pointed  slopes  over  all  that 
tnountain  world. 

It  was  a  wild,  richly  timbered,  and  abundantly  watered 
?egion  of  dark  forests  and  grassy  parks,  ten  thousand  feet 
above  sea-level,  isolated  on  all  sides  by  the  southern 
Arizona  desert — the  virgin  home  of  elk  and  deer,  of  bear 
and  lion,  of  wolf  and  fox,  and  the  birthplace  as  well  as  the 
hiding-place  of  the  fierce  Apache. 

September  in  that  latitude  was  marked  by  the  sudden 
cool  night  breeze  following  shortly  after  sundown.  Twi- 
light appeared  to  come  on  its  wings,  as  did  faint  sounds, 
not  distinguishable  before  in  the  stillness. 

Milt  Dale,  man  of  the  forest,  halted  at  the  edge  of  a 
timbered  ridge,  to  listen  and  to  watch.  Beneath  him 
lay  a  narrow  valley,  open  and  grassy,  from  which  rose  8 

i 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

faint  murmur  of  running  water.  Its  music  was  pierced 
by  the  wild  staccato  yelp  of  a  hunting  coyote.  From 
overhead  in  the  giant  fir  came  a  twittering  and  rustling  of 
grouse  settling  for  the  night;  and  from  across  the  valley 
drifted  the  last  low  calls  of  wild  turkeys  going  to  roost. 

To  Dale's  keen  ear  these  sounds  were  all  they  should 
have  been,  betokening  an  unchanged  serenity  of  forest- 
land.  He  was  glad,  for  he  had  expected  to  hear  the  clip- 
clop  of  white  men's  horses — which  to  hear  up  in  those 
fastnesses  was  hateful  to  him.  He  and  the  Indian  were 
friends.  That  fierce  foe  had  no  enmity  toward  the  lone 
hunter.  But  there  hid  somewhere  in  the  forest  a  gang 
of  bad  men,  sheep-thieves,  whom  Dale  did  not  want  to 
meet. 

As  he  started  out  upon  the  slope,  a  sudden  flaring  of 
the  afterglow  of  sunset  flooded  down  from  Old  Baldy, 
filling  the  valley  with  lights  and  shadows,  yellow  and 
blue,  like  the  radiance  of  the  sky.  The  pools  in  the 
curves  of  the  brook  shone  darkly  bright.  Dale's  gaze 
swept  up  and  down  the  valley,  and  then  tried  to  pierce 
the  black  shadows  across  the  brook  where  the  wall  of 
spruce  stood  up,  its  speared  and  spiked  crest  against  the 
pale  clouds.  The  wind  began  to  moan  in  the  trees  and 
there  was  a  feeling  of  rain  in  the  air.  Dale,  striking  a 
trail,  turned  his  back  to  the  fading  afterglow  and  strode 
down  the  valley. 

With  night  at  hand  and  a  rain-storm  brewing,  he  did 
not  head  for  his  own  camp,  some  miles  distant,  but 
directed  his  steps  toward  an  old  log  cabin.  When  he 
reached  it  darkness  had  almost  set  in.  He  approached 
with  caution.  This  cabin,  like  the  few  others  scattered 
in  the  valleys,  might  harbor  Indians  or  a  bear  or  a  panther. 
Nothing,  however,  appeared  to  be  there.  Then  Dale 
studied  the  clouds  driving  across  the  sky,  and  he  felt  the 
cool  dampness  of  a  fine,  misty  rain  on  his  face.  It  would 
rain  off  and  on  during  the  night.  Whereupon  he  entered 
the  cabin. 

9 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

And  the  next  moment  he  heard  quick  hoof-beats  of 
trotting  horses.  Peering  out,  he  saw  dim,  moving  forms 
in  the  darkness,  quite  close  at  hand.  They  had  ap- 
proached against  the  wind  so  that  sound  had  been  dead- 
ened. Five  horses  with  riders,  Dale  made  out — saw  them 
loom  close.  Then  he  heard  rough  voices.  Quickly  he 
turned  to  feel  in  the  dark  for  a  ladder  he  knew  led  to  a 
loft;  and  finding  it,  he  quickly  mounted,  taking  care  not 
to  make  a  noise  with  his  rifle,  and  lay  down  upon  the  floor 
of  brush  and  poles.  Scarcely  had  he  done  so  when  heavy 
steps,  with  accompaniment  of  clinking  spurs,  passed 
through  the  door  below  into  the  cabin. 

"Wai,  Beasley,  are  you  here?"  queried  a  loud  voice. 

There  was  no  reply.  The  man  below  growled  under 
his  breath,  and  again  the,  spurs  jingled. 

"Fellars,  Beasley  ain't  here  yet,"  he  called.  "Put  the 
bosses  under  the  shed.  We'll  wait." 

"Wait,  huh!"  came  a  harsh  reply.  "Mebbe  all  night 
— an'  we  got  nuthin'  to  eat." 

"Shut  up,  Moze.  Reckon  you're  no  good  for  anythin* 
but  eatin'.  Put  them  hosses  away  an'  some  of  you  rustle 
fire- wood  in  here." 

Low,  muttered  curses,  then  mingled  with  dull  thuds  of 
hoofs  and  strain  of  leather  and  heaves  of  tired  horses. 

Another  shuffling,  clinking  footstep  entered  the  cabin. 

"Snake,  it'd  been  sense  to  fetch  a  pack  along,"  drawled 
this  newcomer. 

"Reckon  so,  Jim.  But  we  didn't,  an'  what's  the  use 
hollerin'?  Beasley  won't  keep  us  waitin'  long." 

Dale,  lying  still  and  prone,  felt  a  slow  start  in  all  his 
blood — a  thrilling  wave.  That  deep-voiced  man  below 
was  Snake  Anson,  the  worst  and'  most  dangerous  char- 
acter of  the  region;  and  the  others,  undoubtedly,  com- 
posed his  gang,  long  notorious  in  that  sparsely  settled 
country.  And  the  Beasley  mentioned — he  was  one  of 
the  two  biggest  ranchers  and  sheep-raisers  of  the  White 
Mountain  ranges.  What  was  the  meaning  of  a  rendez- 

3 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

vous  between  Snake  Anson  and  Beasley?  Milt  Dale 
answered  that  question  to  Beasley's  discredit;  and  many 
strange  matters  pertaining  to  sheep  and  herders,  always 
a  mystery  to  the  little  village  of  Pine,  now  became  as 
clear  as  daylight. 

Other  men  entered  the  cabin. 

"It  ain't  a-goin'  to  rain  much,"  said  one.  Then  came 
a  crash  of  wood  thrown  to  the  ground. 

"Jim,  hyar's  a  chunk  of  pine  log,  dry  as  punk,"  said 
another. 

Rustlings  and  slow  footsteps,  and  then  heavy  thuds 
attested  to  the  probability  that  Jim  was  knocking  the 
end  of  a  log  upon  the  ground  to  split  off  a  corner  whereby 
a  handful  of  dry  splinters  could  be  procured. 

"Snake,  lemme  your  pipe,  arr  I'll  hev  a  fire  in  a  jiffy." 

"Wai,  I  want  my  terbacco  an'  I  ain't  carin'  about  no 
fire,"  replied  Snake. 

"Reckon  you're  the  meanest  cuss  in  these  woods," 
drawled  Jim. 

Sharp  click  of  steel  on  flint — many  times — and  then  a 
sound  of  hard  blowing  and  sputtering  told  of  Jim's  efforts 
to  start  a  fire.  Presently  the  pitchy  blackness  of  the 
cabin  changed;  there  came  a  little  crackling  of  wood  and 
the  rustle  of  flame,  and  then  a  steady  growing  roar. 

As  it  chanced,  Dale  lay  face  down  upon  the  floor  of  the 
loft,  and  right  near  his  eyes  there  were  cracks  between 
the  boughs.  When  the  fire  blazed  up  he  was  fairly  well 
able  tc»  see  the  men  below.  The  only  one  he  had  ever 
seen  was  Jim  Wilson,  who  had  been  well  known  at  Pine 
before  Snake  Anson  had  ever  been  heard  of.  Jim  was 
the  best  of  a  bad  lot,  and  he  had  friends  among  honest 
people.  It  was  rumored  that  he  and  Snake  did  not  pull 
well  together. 

"Fire  feels  good,"  said  the  burly  Moze,  who  appeared 
as  broad  as  he  was  black- visaged.  "Fall's  sure  a-comin'. 
.  .  .  Now  if  we  only  had  some  grub!" 

"Moze,  there's  a  hunk  of  deer  meat  in  my  saddle-bag, 

4 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

an'  if  you  git  it  you  can  have  half,"  spoke  up  another 
voice. 

Moze  shuffled  out  with  alacrity. 

In  the  firelight  Snake  Anson's  face  looked  lean  and 
serpent-like,  his  eyes  glittered,  and  his  long  neck  and  all 
of  his  long  length  carried  out  the  analogy  of  his  name. 

"Snake,  what's  this  here  deal  with  Beasley?"  inquired 
Jim. 

"Reckon  you'll  Tarn  when  I  do,"  replied  the  leader. 
He  appeared  tired  and  thoughtful. 

"  'Ain't  we  done  away  with  enough  of  them  poor  greaser 
herders — for  no  thin'?"  queried  the  youngest  of  the  gang, 
a  boy  in  years,  whose  hard,  bitter  lips  and  hungry  eyes 
somehow  set  him  apart  from  his  comrades. 

"You're  dead  right,  Burt — an'  that's  my  stand,"  re- 
plied the  man  who  had  sent  Moze  out. 

"Snake,  snow  '11  be  fly  in'  round  these  woods  before 
long,"  said  Jim  Wilson.  "Are  we  goin'  to  winter  down 
in  the  Tonto  Basin  or  over  on  the  Gila?" 

"Reckon  we'll  do  some  tall  ridin*  before  we  strike 
south,"  replied  Snake,  gruffly. 

At  this  juncture  Moze  returned. 

"Boss,  I  heerd  a  hoss  comin'  up  the  trail,"  he  said. 

Snake  rose  and  stood  at  the  door,  listening.  Outside 
the  wind  moaned  fitfully  and  scattering  raindrops  pat- 
tered upon  the  cabin. 

"A-huh!"  exclaimed  Snake,  in  relief. 

Silence  ensued  then  for  a  moment,  at  the  end  of  which 
interval  Dale  heard  a  rapid  clip-clop  on  the  rocky  trail 
outside.  The  men  below  shuffled  uneasily,  but  none  of 
them  spoke.  The  fire  cracked  cheerily.  Snake  Anson 
stepped  back  from  before  the  door  with  an  action  that 
Expressed  both  doubt  and  caution. 

The  trotting  horse  had  halted  out  there  somewhere. 

"Ho  there,  inside!"  called  a  voice  from  the  darkness. 

"Ho  yourself!"  replied  Anson. 

"That  you,  Snake?"  quickly  followed  the  query. 

5 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

'Reckon  so,"  returned  Anson,  showing  himself. 

The  newcomer  entered.  He  was  a  large  man,  wearing 
a  slicker  that  shone  wet  in  the  firelight.  His  sombrero, 
pulled  well  down,  shadowed  his  face,  so  that  the  upper 
half  of  his  features  might  as  well  have  been  masked.  He 
had  a  black,  drooping  mustache,  and  a  chin  like  a  rock. 
A  potential  force,  matured  and  powerful,  seemed  to  be 
wrapped  in  his  movements. 

"Hullo,  Snake!  Hullo,  Wilson!"  he  said.  "I've 
backed  out  on  the  other  deal.  Sent  for  you  on — on 
another  little  matter  .  .  .  particular  private." 

Here  he  indicated  with  a  significant  gesture  that  Snake's 
men  were  to  leave  the  cabin. 

"  A-huh ! ' '  ejaculated  Anson,  dubiously.  Then  he  turned 
abruptly.  "Moze,  you  an'  Shady  an'  Burt  go  wait  out- 
side.  Reckon  this  ain't  the  deal  I  expected.  .  .  .  An'  you 
can  saddle  the  hosses." 

The  three  members  of  the  gang  filed  out,  all  glancing 
keenly  at  the  stranger,  who  had  moved  back  into  the 
shadow. 

"All  right  now,  Beasley,"  said  Anson,  low-voiced. 
*  What's  your  game?  Jim,  here,  is  in  on  my  deals." 

Then  Beasley  came  forward  to  the  fire,  stretching  his 
hands  to  the  blaze. 

"Nothin'  to  do  with  sheep,"  replied  he. 

"Wai,  I  reckoned  not,"  assented  the  other.  "An'  say 
— whatever  your  game  is,  1  ain't  likin*  the  way  you  kept 
me  waitin'  an'  ridin'  around.  We  waited  near  all  day 
at  Big  Spring.  Then  thet  greaser  rode  up  an'  sent  us 
here.  We're  a  long  way  from  camp  with  no  grub  an*  no 
blankets." 

"I  won't  keep  you  long,"  said  Beasley.  "But  even  if 
I  did  you'd  not  mind — when  I  tell  you  this  deal  concerns 
Al  Auchincloss — the  man  who  made  an  outlaw  of  you!" 

Anson's  sudden  action  then  seemed  a  leap  of  his  whole 
frame.  Wilson,  likewise,  bent  forward  eagerly.  Beasley 
glanced  at  the  door — then  began  to  whisper. 


THE  MAN  OF  THE^  FOREST 

"Old  Auchincloss  is  on  his  last  legs.  He's  goin'  to 
croak.  He's  sent  back  to  Missouri  for  a  niece — a  young 
girl — an'  he  means  to  leave  his  ranches  an'  sheep — all  his 
stock  to  her.  Seems  he  has  no  one  else.  .  .  .  Them  ranches 
— an'  all  them  sheep  an'  hosses!  You  know  me  an'  Al 
were  pardners  in  sheep-raisin'  for  years.  He  swore  I 
cheated  him  an'  he  threw  me  out.  An'  all  these  years 
I've  been  swearin'  he  did  me  dirt — owed  me  sheep  an*' 
money.  I've  got  as  many  friends  in  Pine — an'  all  the 
way  down  the  trail — as  Auchincloss  has.  .  .  .  An'  Snake, 
see  here — " 

He  paused  to  draw  a  deep  breath  and  his  big  hands 
trembled  over  the  blaze.  Anson  leaned  forward,  like  a 
serpent  ready  to  strike,  and  Jim  Wilson  was  as  tense  with 
his  divination  of  the  plot  at  hand. 

"See  here,"  panted  Beasley.  "The  girl's  due  to  arrive 
at  Magdalena  on  the  sixteenth.  That's  a  week  from 
to-morrow.  She'll  take  the  stage  to  Snowdrop,  where 
some  of  Auchincloss's  men  will  meet  her  with  a  team." 

' '  A-huh ! ' '  grunted  Anson  as  Beasley  halted  again.  "  An* 
what  of  allthet?" 

"She  mustn't  never  get  as  far  as  Snowdrop!" 

"You  want  me  to  hold  up  the  stage — an*  get  the  girl?" 

"Exactly." 

"Wai— an'  what  then?" 

"Make  off  with  her.  .  .  .  She  disappears.  That's  your 
affair.  .  .  .  I'll  press  my  claims  on  Auchincloss — hound 
him — an'  be  ready  when  he  croaks  to  take  over  his 
property.  Then  the  girl  can  come  back,  for  all  I  care. 
.  .  .  You  an'  Wilson  fix  up  the  deal  between  you.  If 
you  have  to  let  the  gang  in  on  it  don't  give  them 
any  huneh  as  to  who  an'  what.  This  '11  make  you 
a  rich  stake.  An'  providin',  when  it's  paid,  you  strike 
for  new  territory." 

" Thet  might  be  wise,"  muttered  Snake  Anson.  "Beas- 
ley, the  weak  point  in  your  game  is  the  uncertainty  of 
life.  Old  Al  is  tough.  He  may  fool  you." 

7 


THE  MAN  OF   THE^ FOREST 

"Auchincloss  is  a  dyin'  man,"  declared  Beasley,  with 
such  positiveness  that  it  could  not  be  doubted. 

"Wai,  he  sure  wasn't  plumb  hearty  when  I  last  seen 
him.  .  .  .  Beasiey,  in  case  I  play  your  game — how'm  I  to 
know  that  girl?" 

"Her  name's  Helen  Rayner,"  replied  Beasley,  eagerly. 
"She's  twenty  years  old.  All  of  them  Auchinclosses  was 
handsome  an'  they  say  she's  the  handsomest." 

"  A-huh! .  .  .  Beasley,  this  's  sure  a  bigger  deal — an*  one 
I  ain't  fancyin'.  .  .  .  But  I  never  doubted  your  word.  .  .  . 
Come  on — an'  talk  out.  What's  in  it  for  me?" 

"Don't  let  any  one  in  on  this.  You  two  can  hold  up 
the  stage.  Why,  it  was  never  held  up.  ...  But  you  want 
to  mask.  .  .  .  How  about  ten  thousand  sheep — or  what 
they  bring  at  Phenix  in  gold?" 

Jim  Wilson  whistled  low. 

"An'  leave  for  new  territory?"  repeated  Snake  Anson, 
under  his  breath. 

"You've  said  it." 

"Wai,  I  ain't  fancyin'  the  girl  end  of  this  deal,  but  you 
can  count  on  me.  .  .  .  September  sixteenth  at  Magdalena 
— an1  her  name's  Helen — an'  she's  handsome?" 

"Yes.  My  herders  will  begin  drivin*  south  in  about 
two  weeks.  Later,  if  the  weather  holds  good,  send  me 
word  by  one  of  them  an'  I'll  meet  you." 

Beasley  spread  his  hands  once  more  over  the  blaze, 
pulled  on  his  gloves  and  pulled  down  his  sombrero,  and 
with  an  abrupt  word  of  parting  strode  out  into  the  night. 

"Jim,  what  do  you  make  of  him? "  queried  Snake  Anson. 

"Pard,  he's  got  us  beat  two  ways  for  Sunday,"  replied 
Wilson. 

"A-huh! .  .  .  Wai,  let's  get  back  to  camp."  And  he  led 
the  way  out. 

Low  voices  drifted  into  the  cabin,  then  came  snorts  of 
horses  and  striking  hoofs,  and  after  that  a  steady  trot, 
gradually  ceasing.  Once  more  the  moan  of  wind  and  soft 
flatter  of  rain  filled  the  forest  stillness. 

8 


CHAPTER  II 

MILT  DALE  quietly  sat  up  to  gaze,  with  thoughtful 
eyes,  into  the  gloom. 

He  was  thirty  years  old.  As  a  boy  of  fourteen  he  had 
run  off  from  his  school  and  home  in  Iowa  and,  joining  a 
wagon-train  of  pioneers,  he  was  one  of  the  first  to  see  log 
cabins  built  on  the  slopes  of  the  White  Mountains.  But 
he  had  not  taken  kindly  to  farming  or  sheep-raising  or 
monotonous  home  toil,  and  for  twelve  years  he  had  lived 
in  the  forest,  with  only  infrequent  visits  to  Pine  and  Show 
Down  and  Snowdrop.  This  wandering  forest  life  of  his 
did  not  indicate  that  he  did  not  care  for  the  villagers,  for 
he  did  care,  and  he  was  welcome  everywhere,  but  that  he 
loved  wild  life  and  solitude  and  beauty  with  the  primitive 
instinctive  force  of  a  savage. 

And  on  this  night  he  had  stumbled  upon  a  dark  plot 
against  the  only  one  of  all  the  honest  white  people  in  that 
region  whom  he  could  not  call  a  friend. 

"That  man  Beasley!"  he  soliloquized.  "Beasley — in 
cahoots  with  Snake  Anson!  .  .  .  Well,  he  was  right.  Al 
Auchincloss  is  on  his  last  legs.  Poor  old  man!  When  I 
tell  him  he'll  never  believe  me,  that's  sure!" 

Discovery  of  the  plot  meant  to  Dale  that  he  must  hurry 
down  to  Pine. 

"A  girl — Helen  Rayner— twenty  years  old,"  he  mused. 
"Beasley  wants  her  made  off  with.  .  .  ..That  means — 
worse  than  killed!" 

Dale  accepted  facts  of  life  wich  that  equanimity  and 
fatality  acquired  by  one  long  versed  in  the  cruel  annals 
of  forest  lore.  Bad  men  worked  their  evil  just  as  savage 
2  9 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

wolves  relayed  a  deer.  He  had  shot  wolves  for  that 
trick.  With  men,  good  or  bad,  he  had  not  clashed.  Old 
women  and  children  appealed  to  him,  but  he  had  never 
had  any  interest  in  girls.  The  image,  then,  of  this  Helen 
Rayner  came  strangely  to  Dale;  and  he  suddenly  realized 
that  he  had  meant  somehow  to  circumvent  Beasley,  not 
to  befriend  old  Al  Auchincloss,  but  for  the  sake  of  the  girl. 
Probably  she  was  already  on  her  way  West,  alone,  eager, 
hopeful  of  a  future  home.  How  little  people  guessed 
what  awaited  them  at  a  journey's  end!  Many  trails 
ended  abruptly  in  the  forest — and  only  trained  woodsmen 
could  read  the  tragedy. 

"Strange  how  I  cut  across  country  to-day  from  Spruce 
Swamp,"  reflected  Dale.  Circumstances,  movements, 
usually  were  not  strange  to  him.  His  methods  and  habits 
were  seldom  changed  by  chance.  The  matter,  then,  of 
his  turning  off  a  course  out  of  his  way  for  no  apparent 
reason,  and  of  his  having  overheard  a  plot  singularly 
involving  a  young  girl,  was  indeed  an  adventure  to  pro- 
voke thought.  It  provoked  more,  for  Dale  grew  con- 
scious of  an  unfamiliar  smoldering  heat  along  his  veins. 
He  who  had  little  to  do  with  the  strife  of  men,  and  noth- 
ing to  do  with  anger,  felt  his  blood  grow  hot  at  the  cowardly 
trap  teid  for  an  innocent  girl. 

"Old  Al  won't  listen  to  me,"  pondered  Dale.  "An' 
even  if  he  did,  he  wouldn't  believe  me.  Maybe  nobody 
will.  .  .  .  All  the  same,  Snake  Anson  won't  get  that  girl." 

With  these  last  words  Dale  satisfied  himself  of  his  own 
position,  and  his  pondering  ceased.  Taking  his  rifle,  he 
descended  from  the  loft  and  peered  out  of  the  door.  The 
night  had  grown  darker,  windier,  cooler;  broken  clouds 
were  scudding  across  the  sky;  only  a  few  stars  showed; 
fine  rain  was  blowing  from  the  northwest;  and  the  forest 
seemed  full  of  a  low,  dull  roar. 

"Reckon  I'd  better  hang  up  here,"  he  said,  and  turned 
to  the  fire.  The  coals  were  red  now.  From  the  depths 
of  his  hunting-coat  he  procured  a  little  bag  of  salt  and 

10 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

some  strips  of  dried  meat.  These  strips  he  laid  for  a 
moment  on  the  hot  embers,  until  they  began  to  sizzle  and 
curl;  then  with  a  sharpened  stick  he  removed  them  and 
ate  like  a  hungry  hunter  grateful  for  little. 

He  sat  on  a  block  of  wood  with  his  palms  spread  to  the 
dying  warmth  of  the  fire  and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
changing,  glowing,  golden  embers.  Outside,  the  wind 
continued  to  rise  and  the  moan  of  the  forest  increased  to 
a  roar.  Dale  felt  the  comfortable  warmth  stealing  over 
him,  drowsily  lulling;  and  he  heard  the  storm- wind  in 
the  trees,  now  like  a  waterfall,  and  anon  like  a  retreating 
army,  and  again  low  and  sad ;  and  he  saw  pictures  in  the 
glowing  embers,  strang$  as  dreams. 

Presently  he  rose  and,  climbing  to  the  loft,  he  stretched 
himself  out,  and  soon  fell  asleep 

When  the  gray  dawn  broke  he  was  on  his  way,  'cross- 
country, to  the  village  of  Pine. 

During  the  night  the  wind  had  shifted  and  the  rain  ha£ 
ceased.  A  suspicion  of  frost  shone  on  the  grass  in  open 
places.  All  was  gray — the  parks,  the  glades — and  deeper, 
darker  gray  marked  the  aisles  of  the  forest.  Shadows 
lurked  under  the  trees  and  the  silence  seemed  consistent 
with  spectral  forms.  Then  the  east  kindled,  the  gray 
lightened,  the  dreaming  woodland  awoke  to  the  far-reach- 
ing rays  of  a  bursting  red  sun. 

This  was  always  the  happiest  moment  of  Dale's  lonely 
days,  as  sunset  was  his  saddest.  He  responded,  and  there 
was  something  in  his  blood  that  answered  tne  whistle  of 
a  stag  from  a  near-by  ridge.  His  strides  were  long,  noise- 
less, and  they  left  dark  trace  where  his  feet  brushed  the 
dew-laden  grass. 

Dale  pursued  a  zigzag  course  over  the  ridges  to  escape 
the  hardest  climbing,  but  the  "senacas" — those  parklike 
meadows  so  named  by  Mexican  sheep-herders — were  aa 
round  and  level  as  if  they  had  been  made  by  man  in  beau-, 
tiful  contrast  to  the  dark-green,  rough,  and  rugged  ridges* 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

Both  open  senaca  and  dense  wooded  ridge  showed  to  his 
quick  '  ye  an  abundance  of  game.  The  cracking  of  twigs 
and  disappearing  flash  of  gray  among  the  spruces,  a  round 
black  lumbering  object,  a  twittering  in  the  brush,  and 
stealthy  steps,  were  all  easy  signs  for  Dale  to  read.  Once, 
as  he  noiselessly  emerged  into  a  little  glade,  he  espied  a  red 
fox  stalking  some  quarry,  which,  as  he  advanced,  proved 
to  be  a  flock  of  partridges.  They  whirred  up,  brushing 
the  branches,  and  the  fox  trotted  away.  In  every  senaca 
Dale  encountered  wild  turkeys  feeding  on  the  seeds  of  the 
high  grass. 

It  had  always  been  his  custom,  on  his  visits  to  Pine,  to 
kill  and  pack  fresh  meat  down  to  several  old  friends,  who 
were  glad  to  give  him  lodging.  And,  hurried  though  he 
was  now,  he  did  not  intend  to  make  an  exception  of  this 
trip. 

At  length  he  got  down  into  the  pine  belt,  where  the 
great,  gnarled,  yellow  trees  soared  aloft,  stately,  and  aloof 
from  one  another,  and  the  ground  was  a  brown,  odorous, 
springy  mat  of  pine-needles,  level  as  a  floor.  Squirrels 
watched  him  from  all  around,  scurrying  away  at  his  near 
approach — tiny,  brown,  light-striped  squirrels,  and  larger 
ones,  russet-colored,  and  the  splendid  dark-grays  with 
their  white  bushy  tails  and  plumed  ears. 

This  belt  of  pine  ended  abruptly  upon  wide,  gray,  rolling, 
open  land,  almost  like  a  prairie,  with  foot-hills  lifting  near 
and  far,  and  the  red-gold  blaze  of  aspen  thickets  catching 
the  morning  <nm.  Here  Dale  flushed  a  flock  of  wild  tur- 
keys, upward  of  forty  in  number,  and  their  subdued  color 
of  gray  flecked  with  white,  and  graceful,  sleek  build, 
showed  them  to  be  hens.  There  was  not  a  gobbler  in 
the  flock.  They  began  to  run  pell-mell  out  into  the  grass, 
until  only  their  heads  appeared  bobbing  along,  and  finally 
disappeared.  Dale  caught  a  glimpse  of  skulking  coyotes 
that  evidently  had  been  stalking  the  turkeys,  and  as  they 
saw  him  and  darted  into  the  timber  he  took  a  quick  shot 
at  the  hindmost.  His  bullet  struck  low.  as  he  had  meant 

12 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

it  to,  but  too  low,  and  the  coyote  got  only  a  dusting  of 
earth  and  pine-needles  thrown  up  into  his  face.  This 
frightened  him  so  that  he  leaped  aside  blindly  to  butt 
into  a  tree,  rolled  over,  gained  his  feet,  and  then  the  cover 
of  the  forest.  Dale  was  amused  at  this.  His  hand  was 
against  all  the  predatory  beasts  of  the  forest,  though  he 
had  learned  that  lion  and  bear  and  wolf  and  fox  were  all 
as  necessary  to  the  great  scheme  of  nature  as  were  the 
gentle,  beautiful  wild  creatures  upon  which  they  preyed. 
But  some  he  loved  better  than  others,  and  so  he  deplored 
the  inexplicable  cruelty. 

He  crossed  the  wide,  grassy  plain  and  struck  another 
gradual  descent  where  aspens  and  pines  crowded  a  shallow 
ravine  and  warm,  sun-lighted  glades  bordered  along  a 
sparkling  brook.  Here  he  heard  a  turkey  gobble,  and 
that  was  a  signal  for  him  to  change  his  course  and  m?ke  a 
crouching,  silent  detour  around  a  clump  of  aspens.  In  a 
sunny  patch  of  grass  a  dozen  or  more  big  gobblers  stood, 
all  suspiciously  facing  in  his  direction,  heads  erect,  with 
that  wild  aspect  peculiar  to  their  species.  Old  wild  tur- 
key gobblers  were  the  most  difficult  game  to  stalk.  Dale 
shot  two  of  them.  The  others  began  to  run  like  ostriches, 
thudding  over  the  ground,  spreading  their  wings,  and  with 
that  running  start  launched  their  heavy  bodies  into  whir- 
ring flight.  They  flew  low,  at  about  the  height  of  a  man 
from  the  grass,  and  vanished  in  the  woods. 

Dale  threw  the  two  turkeys  over  his  shoulder  and  went 
on  his  way.  Soon  he  came  to  a  break  in  the  forest  level, 
from  which  he  gazed  down  a  league-long  slope  of  pine  and 
cedar,  out  upon  the  bare,  glistening  desert,  stretching 
away,  endlessly  rolling  out  to  the  dim,  dark  horizon  line. 

The  little  hamlet  of  Pine  lay  on  the  last  level  of  sparsely 
timbered  forest.  A  road,  running  parallel  with  a  dark- 
watered,  swift-flowing  stream,  divided  the  cluster  of  log 
cabins  from  which  columns  of  blue  smoke  drifted  lazily 
aloft.  Fields  of  corn  and  fields  cf  oats,  yellow  in  the  sun- 
light, surrounded  the  village;  and  green  pastures,  dotted 

13 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

with  horses  and  cattle,  reached  away  to  the  denser  wood- 
land. This  site  appeared  to  be  a  natural  clearing,  for 
there  was  no  evidence  of  cut  timber.  The  scene  was 
rather  too  wild  to  be  pastoral,  but  it  was  serene,  tranquil, 
giving  the  impression  of  a  remote  community,  prosperous 
and  happy,  drifting  along  the  peaceful  tenor  of  seques- 
tered lives. 

Dale  halted  before  a  neat  little  log  cabin  and  a  little 
patch  of  garden  bordered  with  sunflowers.  His  call  was 
answered  by  an  old  woman,  gray  and  bent,  but  remarkably 
Spry,  who  appeared  at  the  door. 

"Why,  land's  sakes,  if  it  ain't  Milt  Dale!"  she  ex- 
claimed, in  welcome. 

"Reckon  it's  me,  Mrs.  Cass,"  he  replied.  "An'  I've 
brought  you  a  turkey." 

"Milt,  you're  that  good  boy  who  never  forgits  old 
Widow  Cass.  .  .  .  What  a  gobbler!  First  one  I've  seen 
this  fall.  My  man  Tom  used  to  fetch  home  gobblers  like 
that.  .  .  .  An'  mebbe  he'll  come  home  again  sometime." 

Her  husband,  Tom  Cass,  had  gone  into  the  forest  years 
before  and  had  never  returned.  But  the  old  woman 
always  looked  for  him  and  never  gave  up  hope. 

"Men  have  been  lost  in  the  forest  an'  yet  come  back," 
replied  Dale,  as  he  had  said  to  her  many  a  time. 

"Come  right  in.  You  air  hungry,  I  know.  Now,  son, 
when  last  did  you  eat  a  fresh  egg  or  a  flapjack?" 

"You  should  remember,"  he  answered,  laughing,  as  he 
followed  her  into  a  small,  clean  kitchen. 

"Laws-a'-me!  An'  thet's  months  ago,"  she  replied, 
shaking  her  gray  head.  "Milt,  you  should  give  up  that 
wild  life — an'  marry — an'  have  a  home." 

"Y'n  always  tell  me  that." 

"  Yet,,  an'  I'll  see  you  do  it  yet.  .  .  .  Now  you  set  there, 
an'  pretty  soon  Til  give  you  thet  to  eat  which  11  make 
your  mouth  water." 

"What's  the  news,  Auntie?"  he  asked. 

"Nary  news  in  this  dead  place.  Why,  nobody's  been 

14 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

to  Snowdrop  in  two  weeks!  .  .  .  Sary  Jones  died,  poor  old 
soul — she's  better  off — an'  one  of  my  cows  run  away. 
Milt,  she's  wild  when  she  gits  loose  in  the  woods.    An' 
you'll  have  to  track  her,  'cause  nobody  else  can.    An* 
John  Dakker's  heifer  was  killed  by  a  lion,  an'  Lem  Har- 
den's  fast  hoss — you  know  his  favorite — was  stole  by  hoss 
thieves.     Lem  is  jest  crazy.    An'  that  reminds  me,  Milt 
where's  your  big  ranger,  thet  you'd  never  seL  or  lend?" 

"  My  horses  are  up  in  the  woods,  Auntie;  safe,  I  reckon, 
from  horse-thieves." 

"Well,  that's  a  blessin'.  We've  had  some  stock  stole 
this  summer,  Milt,  an'  no  mistake." 

Thus,  while  preparing  a  meal  for  Dale,  the  old  woman 
went  on  recounting  all  that  had  happened  in  the  little 
village  since  his  last  visit.  Dale  enjoyed  her  gossip  and 
quaint  philosophy,  and  it  was  exceedingly  good  to  sit  at 
her  table.  In  his  opinion,  nowhere  else  could  there  have 
been  such  butter  and  cream,  such  ham  and  eggs.  Besides, 
she  always  had  apple  pie,  it  seemed,  at  any  time  he  hap- 
pened in;  and  apple  pie  was  one  of  Dale's  few  regrets 
while  up  in  the  lonely  forest. 

"How's  old  Al  Auchincloss?"  presently  inquired  Dale. 

"Poorly — poorly,"  sighed  Mrs.  Cass.  "But  he  tramps 
an'  rides  around  same  as  ever.  Al's  not  long  for  this 
world.  .  .  .  An',  Milt,  that  reminds  me — there's  the  biggest 
news  you  ever  heard." 

"You  don't  say  so!"  exclaimed  Dale,  to  encourage 
the  excited  old  woman. 

"  Al  has  sent  back  to  Saint  Joe  for  his  niece,  Helen  Ray^ 
ner.  She's  to  inherit  all  his  property.  We've  heard 
much  of  her — a  purty  lass,  they  say.  .  .  .  Now,  Milt 
Dale,  here's  your  chance.  Stay  out  of  the  woods  an*  go 
to  work.  .  .  .You  can  marry  that  girl!" 

"No  chance  for  me,  Auntie,"  replied  Dale,  smiling. 

The  old  woman  snorted.     "Much  you  know!    Any  girl 
would  have  you,  Milt  Dale,  if  you'd  only  throw  a  kef 
chief." 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Me!  .  .  .  An'  why,  Auntie?"  he  queried,  half  amused, 
half  thoughtful.  When  he  got  back  to  civilization  he 
always  had  to  adjust  his  thoughts  to  the  ideas  of  people. 

"Why?  I  declare,  Milt,  you  live  so  in  the  woods 
you're  like  a  boy  of  ten — an'  then  sometimes  as  old  as 
the  hills.  .  .  .  There's  no  young  man  to  compare  with  you, 
hereabouts.  An'  this  girl — she'll  have  all  the  spunk  of 
the  Auchinclosses." 

"Then  maybe  she'd  not  be  such  a  catch,  after  all," 
replied  Dale. 

"Wai,  you've  no  cause  to  love  them,  that's  sure.  But, 
Milt,  the  Auchincloss  women  are  always  good  wives." 

"Dear  Auntie,  you're  dreamin',"  said  Dale,  soberly. 
"I  want  no  wife.  I'm  happy  in  the  woods." 

"Air  you  goin'  to  live  like  an  Injun  all  your  days,  Milt 
Dale?"  she  queried,  sharply. 

"I  hope  so." 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed.  But  some  lass  will  change 
you,  boy,  an'  mebbe  it  '11  be  this  Helen  Rayner.  I  hope 
an'  pray  so  to  thet." 

"Auntie,  supposin'  she  did  change  me.  She'd  never 
change  old  Al.  He  hates  me,  you  know." 

"Wai,  I  ain't  so  sure,  Milt.  I  met  Al  the  other  day. 
He  inquired  for  you,  an'  said  you  was  wild,  but  he  reck- 
oned men  like  you  was  good  for  pioneer  settlements. 
Lord  knows  the  good  turns  you've  done  this  village! 
Milt,  old  Al  doesn't  approve  of  your  wild  life,  but  he 
never  had  no  hard  feelin's  till  thet  tame  lion  of  yours 
killed  so  many  of  his  sheep." 

"Auntie,  I  don't  believe  Tom  ever  killed  Al's  sheep," 
declared  Dale,  positively. 

"Wai,  Al  thinks  so,  an*  many  other  people,"  replied 
Mrs.  Cass,  shaking  her  gray  head  doubtfully.  "You 
never  swore  he  didn't.  An'  there  was  them  two  sheep- 
herders  who  did  swear  they  seen  him." 

"They  only  saw  a  cougar.    An9  they  were  so  seated 

they  ran." 

16 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"Who  wouldn't?  Thet  big  beast  is  enough  to  scare 
any  one.  For  land's  sakes,  don't  ever  fetch  him  down 
here  again!  I'll  never  forgit  the  time  you  did.  All  the 
folks  an'  children  an'  hosses  in  Pine  broke  an'  run  thet 
day." 

"Yes;  but  Tom  wasn't  to  blame.  Auntie,  he's  the 
tamest  of  my  pets.  Didn't  he  try  to  put  his  head  on 
your  lap  an'  lick  your  hand?" 

"Wai,  Milt,  I  ain't  gainsayin'  your  cougar  pet  didn't 
act  better  'n  a  lot  of  people  I  know,  Fer  he  did.  But  the 
looks  of  him  an'  what's  been  said  was  enough  for  me." 

"An'  what's  all  that,  Auntie?" 

"They  say  he's  wild  when  out  of  your  sight.  An'  thet 
he'd  trail  an'  kill  any  thin'  you  put  him  after." 

"I  trained  him  to  be  just  that  way." 

"Wai,  leave  Tom  to  home  up  in  the  woods — when  you 
visit  us." 

Dale  finished  his  hearty  meal,  and  listens!  awhile 
longer  to  the  old  woman's  talk;  then,  taking  his  rifle  and 
the  other  turkey,  he  bade  her  good-by.  She  followed 
him  out. 

"Now,  Milt,  you'll  come  soon  again,  won't  you — jest 
to  see  Al's  niece — who'll  be  here  in  a  week?" 

"I  reckon  I'll  drop  in  some  day.  .  .  .  Auntie,  have  you 
seen  my  friends,  the  Mormon  boys?" 

"No,  I  'ain't  seen  them  an'  don't  want  to,'1  she  retorted. 
"  Milt  Dale,  if  any  one  ever  corrals  you  it  '11  be  Mormons." 

"  Don't  worry,  Auntie.  I  like  those  boys.  They  often 
see  me  up  in  the  woods  an'  ask  me  to  help  them  track  a 
hoss  or  help  kill  some  fresh  meat." 

"They're  workin*  for  Beasley  now." 

"  Is  that  so  ? "  rejoined  Dale,  with  a  sudden  start.  "  An9 
what  doin'?" 

"Beasley  is  gettin'  so  rich  he's  buildin'  a  fence,  an' 
didn't  have  enough  help,  so  I  hear." 

"Beasley  gettin'  rich!"  repeated  Dale,  thoughtfully. 
"More  sheep  an'  horses  an'  cattle  than  ever,  I  reckon?'1 

17 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Laws-a'-me!  Why,  Milt,  Beasley  'ain't  any  idea 
what  he  owns.  Yes,  he's  the  biggest  man  in  these  parts, 
since  poor  old  ATs  took  to  failin'.  I  reckon  Al's  health 
ain't  none  improved  by  Beasley's  success.  They've  had 
some  bitter  quarrels  lately — so  I  hear.  Al  ain't  what  he 
was." 

Dale  bade  good-by  again  to  his  old  friend  and  strode 
away,  thoughtful  and  serious.  Beasley  would  not  only 
be  difficult  to  circumvent,  but  he  would  be  dangerous  to 
oppose.  There  did  not  appear  much  doubt  of  his  driving 
his  way  rough-shod  to  he  dominance  of  affairs  there  in 
Pine.  Dale,  passing  down  the  road,  began  to  meet  ac- 
quaintances who  had  hearty  welcome  for  his  presence 
and  interest  in  his  doings,  so  that  his  pondering  was 
interrupted  for  the  time  being.  He  carried  the  turkey 
to  another  old  friend,  and  when  he  left  her  house  he 
went  on  to  the  village  store.  This  was  a  large  log  cabin, 
roughly  covered  with  clapboards,  with  a  wide  plank  plat- 
form in  front  and  a  hitching-rail  in  the  road.  Several 
horses  were  standing  there,  and  a  group  of  lazy,  shirt- 
sleeved  loungers. 

"Ill  be  doggoned  if  it  ain't  Milt  Dale!"  exclaimed 
one. 

"Howdy,  Milt,  old  buckskin!  Right  down  glad  to  see 
you,"  greeted  another. 

"Hello,  Dale!  You  air  shore  good  for  sore  eyes," 
drawled  still  another. 

After  a  long  period  of  absence  Dale  always  experienced 
a  singular  warmth  of  feeling  when  he  met  these  acquaint- 
ances. It  faded  quickly  when  he  got  back  to  the  inti- 
macy of  his  woodland,  and  that  was  because  the  people;  of 
Pine,  with  few  exceptions — though  they  liked  him  and 
greatly  admired  his  outdoor  wisdom — regarded  him  as  a 
sort  of  nonentity.  Because  he  loved  the  wild  and  pre- 
ferred it  to  village  and  range  life,  they  had  classed  him  as 
not  one  of  them.  Some  believed  him  lazy;  others  be- 
lieved him  shiftless;  others  thought  him  an  Indian  in 

18 


THE  MAN  Of  THE  FOREST 

mind  and  habits;  and  there  were  many  who  called  him 
slow-witted.  Then  there  was  another  side  to  their  regard 
for  him,  which  always  afforded  him  good-natured  amuse- 
ment. Two  of  this  group  asked  him  to  bring  in  some 
turkey  or  venison;  another  wanted  to  hunt  with  him. 
Lem  Harden  came  out  of  the  store  and  appealed  to  Dale 
to  recover  his  stolen  horse.  Lem's  brother  wanted  a 
wild-running  mare  tracked  and  brought  home.  Jesse 
Lyons  wanted  a  colt  broken,  and  broken  with  patience, 
not  violence,  as  was  the  method  of  the  hard-riding  boys 
at  Pine.  So  one  and  all  they  besieged  Dale  with  their 
selfish  needs,  all  unconscious  of  the  flattering  nature  of 
these  overtures.  And  on  the  moment  there  happened  by 
two  women  whose  remarks,  as  they  entered  the  store, 
bore  strong  testimony  to  Dale's  personality. 

"If  there  ain't  Milt  Dale!"  exclaimed  the  older  of  the 
two.  "How  lucky!  My  cow's  sick,  an'  the  men  are  no 
good  doctorin'.  I'll  jest  ask  Milt  over." 

"No  one  like  Milt!"  responded  the  other  woman, 
heartily. 

"Good  day  there— you  Milt  Dale!"  called  the  first 
speaker.  "When  you  git  away  from  these  lazy  men 
come  over." 

Dale  never  refused  a  service,  and  that  was  why  hi? 
infrequent  visits  to  Pine  were  wont  to  be  prolonged  beyond 
his  own  pleasure. 

Presently  Beasley  strode  down  the  street,  and  when 
about  to  enter  the  store  he  espied  Dale. 

"Hullo  there,  Milt!"  he  called,  cordially,  as  he  came 
forward  with  extended  hand.  His  greeting  was  sincere, 
but  the  lightning  glance  he  shot  over  Dale  was  not  born 
of  his  pleasure.  Seen  in  daylight,  Beasley  was  a  big,  bold,' 
bluff  man,  with  strong,  dark  features.  His  aggressive 
presence  suggested  that  he  was  a  good  friend  and  a  bad 
enemy. 

Dale  shook  hands  with  him. 

"How  are  you,  Beasley?" 

19 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"Ain't  complainin',  Milt,  though  I  got  more  work  than 
I  can  rustle.  Reckon  you  wouldn't  take  a  job  bossin'  my 
sheep-herders?" 

" Reckon  I  wouldn't,"  replied  Dale.  "Thanks  all  the 
same." 

"What's  goin'  on  up  in  the  woods?" 

"Plenty  of  turkey  an'  deer.  Lots  of  bear,  too.  The 
Indians  have  worked  back  on  the  south  side  early  this 
fall.  But  I  reckon  winter  will  come  late  an'  be  mild." 

"Good!    An'  where  're  you  headin'  from?" 

"'Cross-country  from  my  camp,"  replied  Dale,  rather 
evasively. 

"Your  camp!  Nobody  ever  found  that  yet,"  declared 
Beasley,  gruffly. 

"It's  up  there,"  said  Dale. 

"Reckon  you've  got  that  cougar  chained  in  your  cabin 
door?"  queried  Beasley,  and  there  was  a  barely  distin- 
guishable shudder  of  his  muscular  frame.  Also  the  pupils 
dilated  in  his  hard  brown  eyes. 

"  Tom  ain't  chained.     An'  I  haven't  no  cabin,  Beasley." 

"You  mean  to  tell  me  that  big  brute  stays  in  your 
camp  without  bein'  hog-tied  or  corralled!"  demanded 
Beasley. 

"Sure  he  does." 

"Beats  me!  But,  then,  I'm  queer  on  cougars.  Have 
had  many  a  cougar  trail  me  at  night.  Ain't  sayin'  I  was 
scared.  But  I  don't  care  for  that  brand  of  varmint.  .  .  , 
Milt,  you  goin'  to  stay  down  awhile?" 

"Yes,  I'll  hang  around  some." 

"Come  over  to  the  ranch.  Glad  to  see  you  any  time 
Some  old  huntin'  pards  of  yours  are  workin'  for  me." 

"Thanks,  Beasley.     I  reckon  I'll  come  over." 

Beasley  turned  away  and  took  a  step,  and  then,  as  if 
with  an  after-thought,  he  wheeled  again. 

"Suppose  you've  heard  about  old  Al  Auchincloss  bein; 
near  petered  out?"  queried  Beasley.  A  strong,  ponderous 
cast  of  thought  seemed  to  emanate  from  his  features. 

20 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

Dale  divined  that  Beasley's  next  step  would  be  to  further 
his  advancement  by  some  word  or  hint. 

"Widow  Cass  was  tellin'  me  all  the  news.  Too  bad 
about  old  Al,"  replied  Dale. 

"Sure  is.  He's  done  for.  An'  I'm  sorry — though  Al's 
never  been  square — " 

"Beasley,"  interrupted  Dale,  quickly,  "you  can't  say 
that  to  me.  Al  Auchincloss  always  was  the  whitest  an' 
squarest  man  in  this  sheep  country." 

Beasley  gave  Dale  a  fleeting,  dark  glance. 

"  Dale,  what  you  think  ain't  goin'  to  influence  feelin'  on 
this  range,"  returned  Beasley,  deliberately.  "You  live  in 
the  woods  an' — " 

"Reckon  livin'  in  the  woods  I  might  think — an'  know  a 
whole  lot,"  interposed  Dale,  just  as  deliberately.  The 
group  of  men  exchanged  surprised  glances.  This  was 
Milt  Dale  in  different  aspect.  And  Beasley  did  not  con- 
ceal a  puzzled  surprise. 

"About  what — now?"  he  asked,  bluntly. 

"Why,  about  what's  goin'  on  in  Pine,"  replied  Dale. 

Some  of  the  men  laughed. 

"Shore  lots  goin'  on — an'  no  mistake,"  put  in  Lem 
Harden. 

Probably  the  keen  Beasley  had  never  before  considered 
Milt  Dale  as  a  responsible  person;  certainly  never  one  in 
any  way  to  cross  his  trail.  But  on  the  instant,  perhaps, 
some  instinct  was  born,  or  he  divined  an  antagonism  in 
Dale  that  was  both  surprising  and  perplexing. 

"  Dale,  I've  differences  with  Al  Auchincloss — have  had 
them  for  years,"  said  Beasley.  "Much  of  what  he  owns 
is  mine.  An'  it's  goin'  to  come  to  me.  Now  I  reckon 
people  will  be  takin'  sides — some  for  me  an'  some  for  Al. 
Most  are  for  me.  .  .  -  Where  do  you  stand?  Ai  Auchin- 
closs never  had  no  use  for  you,  an'  besides  he's  a  dyin* 
man.  Are  you  goin'  on  his  side?" 

"Yes,  I  reckon  I  am." 

"Wai,  I'm  glad  you've  declared  yourself,"  rejoined 

21 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Beasley,  shortly,  and  he  strode  away  with  the  ponderous 
gait  of  a  man  who  would  brush  any  obstacle  from  his 
path. 

"Milt,  thet's  bad — makin'  Beasley  sore  at  you,"  said 
Lem  Harden.  "He's  on  the  way  to  boss  this  outfit." 

"He's  sure  goin'  to  step  into  Al's  boots,"  said  another. 

"Thet  was  white  of  Milt  to  stick  up  fer  poor  old  Al," 
declared  Lem's  brother. 

Dale  broke  away  from  them  and  wended  a  thoughtful 
way  down  the  road.  The  burden  of  what  he  knew  about 
Beasley  weighed  less  heavily  upon  him,  and  the  close- 
lipped  course  he  had  decided  upon  appeared  wisest.  He 
needed  to  think  before  undertaking  to  call  upon  old  Al 
Auchincloss;  and  to  that  end  he  sought  an  hour's  seclusion 
under  the  pines. 


CHAPTER  III 

IN  the  afternoon,  Dale,  having  accomplished  some  tasks 
imposed  upon  him  by  his  old  friends  at  Pine,  directed 
slow  steps  toward  the  Auchincloss  ranch. 

The  flat,  square  stone  and  log  cabin  of  unusually  large 
size  stood  upon  a  little  hill  half  a  mile  out  of  the  village. 
A  home  as  well  as  a  fort,  it  had  been  the  first  structure 
erected  in  that  region,  and  the  process  of  building  had 
more  than  once  been  interrupted  by  Indian  attacks.  The 
Apaches  had  for  some  time,  however,  confined  their  fierce 
raids  to  points  south  of  the  White  Mountain  range. 
Auchincloss's  house  looked  down  upon  barns  and  sheds 
and  corrals  of  all  sizes  and  shapes,  and  hundreds  of  acres 
of  well-cultivated  soil.  Fields  of  oats  waved  gray  and 
yellow  in  the  afternoon  sun;  an  immense  green  pasture 
was  divided  by  a  willow-bordered  brook,  and  here  were 
droves  of  horses,  and  out  on  the  rolling  bare  flats  were 
straggling  herds  of  cattle. 

The  whole  ranch  showed  many  years  of  toil  and  the 
perseverance  of  man.  The  brook  irrigated  the  verdant 
valley  between  the  ranch  and  the  village.  Water  for  the 
house,  however,  came  down  from  the  high,  wooded  slope 
of  the  mountain,  and  had  been  brought  there  by  a  simple 
expedient.  Pine  logs  of  uniform  size  had  been  laid  end 
to  end,  with  a  deep  trough  cut  in  them,  and  they  made 
a  shining  line  down  the  slope,  across  the  valley,  and  up 
the  little  hill  to  the  Auchincloss  home.  Near  the  house 
the  hollowed  halves  of  logs  had  been  bound  together, 
making  a  crude  pipe.  Water  ran  uphill  in  this  case,  one 
of  the  facts  that  made  the  ranch  famous,  as  it  had  always 

23 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

been  a  wonder  and  delight  to  the  small  boys  of  Pine.  The 
two  good  women  who  managed  Auchincloss's  large  house- 
hold were  often  shocked  by  the  strange  things  that  floated 
into  their  kitchen  with  the  ever-flowing  stream  of  clear, 
cold  mountain  water. 

As  it  happened  this  day  Dale  encountered  Al  Auchin- 
closs  sitting  in  the  shade  of  a  porch,  talking  to  some  of 
his  sheep-herders  and  stockmen.  Auchincloss  was  a 
short  man  of  extremely  powerful  build  and  great  width 
of  shoulder.  He  had  no  gray  hairs,  and  he  did  not  look 
old,  yet  there  was  in  his  face  a  certain  weariness,  some- 
thing that  resembled  sloping  lines  of  distress,  dim  and 
pale,  that  told  of  age  and  the  ebb-tide  of  vitality.  His 
features,  cast  in  large  mold,  were  clean-cut  and  comely, 
and  he  had  frank  blue  eyes,  somewhat  sad,  yet  still  full 
of  spirit. 

Dale  had  no  idea  how  his  visit  would  be  taken,  and  he 
certainly  would  not  have  been  surprised  to  be  ordered  off 
the  place.  He  had  not  set  foot  there  for  years.  There- 
fore it  was  with  surprise  that  he  saw  Auchincloss  wave 
away  the  herders  and  take  his  entrance  without  any 
particular  expression. 

"Howdy,  Al!  How  are  you?"  greeted  Dale,  easily,  as 
he  leaned  his  rifle  against  the  log  wall. 

Auchincloss  did  not  rise,  but  he  offered  his  hand. 

"Wai,  Milt  Dale,  I  reckon  this  is  the  first  time  I  ever 
seen  you  that  I  couldn't  lay  you  flat  on  your  back,"  re- 
plied the  rancher.  His  tone  was  both  testy  and  full  of 
pathos. 

"I  take  it  you  mean  you  ain't  very  well,"  replied  Dale. 
" I'm  sorry,  Al." 

"No,  it  ain't  thet.  Never  was  sick  in  my  life.  I'm 
just  played  out,  like  a  hoss  thet  had  been  strong  an* 
willin',  an'  did  too  much.  .  .  .  Wai,  you  don't  look  a  day 
older,  Milt.  Livin'  in  the  woods  rolls  over  a  man's  head." 

"Yes,  I'm  feelin'  fine,  an'  time  never  bothers  me." 

"Wai,  mebbe  you  ain't  such  a  fool,  after  all.    I've 

24 


THE  MAN~OF   THE  FOREST 

wondered  lately — since  I  had  time  to  think.  .  .  .  But, 
Milt,  you  don't  git  no  richer." 

"Al,  I  have  all  I  want  an'  need." 

"Wai,  then,  you  don't  support  anybody;  you  don't  do 
any  good  in  the  world." 

"We  don't  agree,  Al,"  replied  Dale,  with  his  slow  smile. 

"Reckon  we  never  did.  .  .  .  An'  you  jest  come  over  to 
pay  your  respects  to  me,  eh?" 

"Not  altogether,"  answered  Dale,  ponderingly.  "First 
off,  I'd  like  to  say  I'll  pay  back  them  sheep  you  always 
claimed  my  tame  cougar  killed." 

"You  will!     An'  how'd  you  go  about  that?" 

"Wasn't  very  many  sheep,  was  there?" 

"A  matter  of  fifty  head." 

"So  many!  Al,  do  you  still  think  old  Tom  killed  them 
sheep?" 

"Humph!     Milt,  I  know  damn  well  he  did." 

"Al,  now  how  could  you  know  somethin'  I  don't?  Be 
reasonable,  now.  Let's  don't  fall  out  about  this  againj 
I'll  pay  back  the  sheep.  Work  it  out — " 

"Milt  Dale,  you'll  come  down  here  an'  work  out  that 
fifty  head  of  sheep!"  ejaculated  the  old  rancher,  incredu- 
lously. 

"Sure." 

"Wai,  I'll  be  damned!"  He  sat  back  and  gazed  with 
shrewd  eyes  at  Dale.  "What's  got  into  you,  Milt?  Hev 
you  heard  about  my  niece  thet's  comin',  an'  think  you'll 
shine  up  to  her?" 

"Yes,  Al,  her  comin'  has  a  good  deal  to  do  with  my 
deal,"  replied  Dale,  soberly.  "But  I  never  thought  to 
shine  up  to  her,  as  you  hint." 

"Haw!  Haw!  You're  just  like  all  the  other  colts  here- 
abouts. Reckon  it's  a  good  sign,  too.  It  '11  take  a  woman 
to  fetch  you  out  of  the  woods.  But,  boy,  this  niece  of 
mine,  Helen  Rayner,  will  stand  you  on  your  head.  I 
never  seen  her.  They  say  she's  jest  like  her  mother.  An* 
Nell  Auchincloss — what  a  girl  she  was!" 
3  2.5 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Dale  felt  his  face  grow  red.  Indeed,  this  was  strango 
conversation  for  him. 

"Honest,  Al — "  he  began. 

"Son,  don't  lie  to  an  old  man." 

"Lie!  I  wouldn't  lie  to  any  one.  Al,  it's  only  men 
who  live  in  towns  an'  are  always  makin*  deals.  I  live  in 
the  forest,  where  there's  nothin'  to  make  me  lie." 

"Wai,  no  offense  meant,  I'm  sure,"  responded  Auchin- 
closs.  "An'  mebbe  there's  somethin'  in  what  you  say. 
.  .  .  We  was  talkin'  about  them  sheep  your  big  cat  killed. 
Wai,  Milt,  I  can't  prove  it,  that's  sure.  An'  mebbe 
you'll  think  me  doddery  when  I  tell  you  my  reason.  It 
wasn't  what  them  greaser  herders  said  about  seein'  a 
cougar  in  the  herd." 

"What  was  it,  then?"  queried  Dale,  much  interested. 

"Wai,  thet  day  a  year  ago  I  seen  your  pet.  He  was 
lyin'  in  front  of  the  store  an'  you  was  inside  tradin'  fer 
supplies,  I  reckon.  It  was  like  meetin'  an  enemy  face  to 
face.  Because,  damn  me  if  I  didn't  know  that  cougar 
was  guilty  when  he  looked  in  my  eyes !  There ! " 

The  old  rancher  expected  to  be  laughed  at.  But  Dale 
was  grave. 

"Al,  I  know  how  you  felt,"  he  replied,  as  if  they  were 
discussing  an  action  of  a  human  being.  "Sure  I'd  hate 
to  doubt  old  Tom.  But  he's  a  cougar.  An'  the  ways  of 
animals  are  strange.  .  .  .  Anyway,  Al,  I'll  make  good  the 
loss  of  your  sheep." 

"No,  you  won't,"  rejoined  Auchincloss,  quickly. 
"We'll  call  it  off.  I'm  takin'  it  square  of  you  to  make 
the  offer.  Thet's  enough.  So  forget  your  worry  about 
work,  if  you  had  any." 

"There's  somethin'  else,  Al,  I  wanted  to  say,"  began 
Dale,  with  hesitation.  "An'  it's  about  Beasley." 

Auchincloss  started  violently,  and  a  flame  of  red  shot 
into  his  face.  Then  he  raised  a  big  hand  that  shook. 
Dale  saw  in  a  flash  how  the  old  man's  nerves  had  gone. 

"Don't  mention — thet — thet  greaser — to  met"  burst 

26 


THE  MAN 'OF  THE  FOREST 

out  the  rancher.  "It  makes  me  see — red.  .  .  .  Dale,  I 
ain't  overlookin'  that  you  spoke  up  fer  me  to-day — stood 
fer  my  side.  Lem  Harden  told  me.  I  was  glad.  An' 
thet's  why — to-day — I  forgot  our  old  quarrel.  .  .  .  But 
not  a  word  about  thet  sheep-thief — or  I'll  drive  you  off 
the  place!" 

"But,  Al — be  reasonable,"  remonstrated  Dale.  "It's 
necessary  thet  I  speak  of — of  Beasley." 

"It  ain't.     Not  to  me.     I  won't  listen." 

"Reckon  you'll  have  to,  Al,"  returned  Dale.  " Beas- 
ley 's  after  your  property.  He's  made  a  deal — " 

"By  Heaven!  I  know  that!"  shouted  Auchincloss, 
tottering  up,  with  his  face  now  black-red.  "Do  you 
think  thet's  new  to  me?  Shut  up,  Dale!  I  can't  stand 
it." 

"But  Al — there's  worse,"  went  on  Dale,  hurriedly. 
"Worse!  Your  life's  threatened — an'  your  niece,  Helen 
—she's  to  be—" 

"Shut  up — an'  clear  out!"  roared  Auchincloss,  waving 
his  huge  fists. 

He  seemed  on  the  verge  of  a  collapse  as,  shaking  aft 
over,  he  backed  into  the  door.  A  few  seconds  of  rage 
had  transformed  him  into  a  pitiful  old  man. 

"But,  Al — I'm  your  friend — "  began  Dale,  appealingly. 

"Friend,  hey?"  returned  the  rancher,  with  grim,  bitter 
passion.  "Then  you're  the  only  one.  .  .  .  Milt  Dale,  I'm 
rich  an'  I'm  a  dyin'  man.  I  trust  nobody.  .  .  .  But,  you 
wild  hunter — if  you're  my  friend — prove  it!  ...  Go  kill 
thet  greaser  sheep-thief!  Do  somethin' — an'  then  come 
talk  to  me!" 

With  that  he  lurched,  half  falling,  into  the  house,  and 
slammed  the  door. 

Dale  stood  there  for  a  blank  moment,  and  then,  taking 
up  his  rifle,  he  strode  away. 

Toward  sunset  Dale  located  the  camp  of  his  four  Mo*- 
mon  friends,  and  reached  it  in  time  for  supper. 

27 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

John,  Roy>  Joe,  and  Hal  Beeman  were  sons  of  a  pioneer 
Mormon  who  had  settled  the  little  community  of  Snow- 
drop. They  were  young  men  in  years,  but  hard  labor 
and  hard  life  in  the  open  had  made  them  look  matured. 
Only  a  year's  difference  in  age  stood  between  John  and 
Roy,  and  between  Roy  and  Joe,  and  likewise  Joe  and  Hal. 
When  it  came  to  appearance  they  were  difficult  to  dis- 
tinguish from  one  another.  Horsemen,  sheep-herders, 
cattle-raisers,  hunters — they  all  possessed  long,  wiry, 
powerful  frames,  lean,  bronzed,  still  faces,  and  the  quiet, 
keen  eyes  of  men  used  to  the  open. 

Their  camp  was  situated  beside  a  spring  in  a  cove  sur- 
rounded by  aspens,  some  three  miles  from  Pine;  and, 
though  working  for  Beasley,  near  the  village,  they  had 
ridden  to  and  fro  from  camp,  after  the  habit  of  seclusion 
peculiar  to  their  kind. 

Dale  and  the  brothers  had  much  in  common,  and  a 
warm  regard  had  sprung  up.  But  their  exchange  of  con- 
fidences had  wholly  concerned  things  pertaining  to  the 
forest.  Dale  ate  supper  with  them,  and  talked  as  usual 
when  he  met  them,  without  giving  any  hint  of  the  pur- 
pose forming  in  his  mind.  After  the  meal  he  helped  Joe 
round  up  the  horses,  hobble  them  for  the  night,  and  drive 
them  into  a  grassy  glade  among  the  pines.  Later,  when 
the  shadows  stole  through  the. forest  on  the  cool  wind, 
and  the  camp-fire  glowed  comfortably,  Dale  broached  the 
subject  that  possessed  him. 

"An*  so  you're  working  for  Beasley?"  he  queried,  by 
way  of  starting  conversation. 

"We  was,"  drawled  John.  "But  to-day,  bein'  the  end 
of  our  month,  we  got  our  pay  an'  quit.  Beasley  sure  was 
sore." 

"Why'd  you  knock  off?" 

John  essayed  no  reply,  and  his  brothers  all  had  that 
quiet,  suppressed  look  of  knowledge  under  restraint. 

"Listen  to  what  I  come  to  tell  you,  then  you'll  talk," 
went  on  Dale.  And  hurriedly  he  told  of  Beasley's  plot 

28 


THE  MAN  OF  THE^FOREST 

fco  abduct  Al  Auchincloss's  niece  and  claim  the  dying 
man's  property. 

When  Dale  ended,  rather  breathlessly,  the  Mormon 
boys  sat  without  any  show  of  surprise  or  feeling.  John, 
the  eldest,  took  up  a  stick  and  slowly  poked  the  red 
embers  of  the  fire,  making  the  white  sparks  fly. 

"Now,  Milt,  why'd  you  tell  us  thet?"  he  asked, 
guardedly. 

"You're  the  only  friends  I've  got,"  replied  Dale.  "It 
didn't  seem  safe  for  me  to  talk  down  in  the  village.  I 
thought  of  you  boys  right  off.  I  ain't  goin'  to  let  Snake 
Anson  get  that  girl.  An'  I  need  help,  so  I  come  to  you." 

"Beasley's  strong  around  Pine,  an'  old  Al's  weakenin', 
Beasley  will  git  the  property,  girl  or  no  girl,"  said  John. 

"Things  don't  always  turn  out  as  they  look.  But  no 
matter  about  that.  The  girl  deal  is  what  riled  me.  .  .  . 
She's  to  arrive  at  Magdalena  on  the  sixteenth,  an'  take 
stage  for  Snowdrop.  .  .  .  Now  what  to  do?  If  she  travels 
on  that  stage  I'll  be  on  it,  you  bet.  But  she  oughtn't  to 
be  in  it  at  all.  .  .  .  Boys,  somehow  I'm  goin'  to  save  her. 
Will  you  help  me  ?  I  reckon  I've  been  in  some  tight  corners 
for  you.  Sure,  this  's  different.  But  are  you  my  friends? 
You  know  now  what  Beasley  is.  An'  you're  all  lost  at 
the  hands  of  Snake  Anson's  gang.  You've  got  fast  bosses, 
eyes  for  trackin',  an'  you  can  handle  a  rifle.  You're  the 
kind  of  fellows  I'd  want  in  a  tight  pinch  with  a  bad  gang. 
Will  you  stand  by  me  or  see  me  go  alone? " 

Then  John  Beeman,  silently,  and  with  pale  face,  gave 
Dale's  hand  a  powerful  grip,  and  one  by  one  the  other 
brothers  rose  to  do  likewise.  Their  eyes  flashed  with  hard 
glint  and  a  strange  bitterness  hovered  around  their  thin  lips. 

"Milt,  mebbe  we  know  what  Beasley  is  better  'n  you," 
said  John,  at  length.  "He  ruined  my  father.  He's 
cheated  other  Mormons.  We  boys  have  proved  to  our- 
selves thet  he  gets  the  sheep  Anson's  gang  steals.  .  .  .  An* 
drives  the  herds  to  Phenix!  Our  people  won't  let  us 
accuse  Beasley.  So  we've  suffered  in  silence.  My  father 

29 


THE  MAN  OF    TRff  FOREST 

always  said,  let  some  one  else  say  the  first  word  against 
Beasley,  an'  you've  come  to  us!" 

Roy  Beeman  put  a  hand  on  Dale's  shoulder.  He,  per- 
haps, was  the  keenest  of  the  brothers  and  the  one  to  whom 
adventure  and  peril  called  most.  He  had  been  oftenest 
with  Dale,  on  many  a  long  trail,  and  he  was  the  hardest 
rider  and  the  most  relentless  tracker  in  all  that  range 
country. 

"An*  we're  goin'  with  you,"  he  said,  in  a  strong  and 
rolling  voice. 

They  resumed  their  seats  before  the  fire.  John  threw 
on  more  wood,  and  with  a  crackling  and  sparkling  the 
blaze  curled  up,  fanned  by  the  wind.  As  twilight  deep- 
ened into  night  the  moan  in  the  pines  increased  to  a  roar. 
A  pack  of  coyotes  commenced  to  pierce  the  air  in  staccato 
cries. 

The  five  young  men  conversed  long  and  earnestly,  con- 
sidering, planning,  rejecting  ideas  advanced  by  each. 
Dale  and  Roy  Beeman  suggested  most  of  what  became 
acceptable  to  all.  Hunters  of  their  type  resembled  ex- 
plorers in  slow  and  deliberate  attention  to  details.  What 
they  had  to  deal  with  he.'e  was  a  situation  of  unlimited 
possibilities;  the  horses  and  outfit  needed;  a  long  detour 
to  reach  Magdalena  unobserved;  the  rescue  of  a  strange 
girl  who  would  no  doubt  be  self-willed  and  determined  to 
ride  on  the  stage — the  rescue  forcible,  if  necessary-  the 
fight  and  the  inevitable  pursuit ;  the  flight  into  the  forest, 
and  the  safe  delivery  of  the  girl  to  Auchincloss. 

"Then,  Milt,  will  we  go  after  Beasley?"  queried  Roy 
Beeman,  significantly. 

Dale  was  silent  and  thoughtful. 

"Sufficient  unto  the  day!"  said  John.  "An',  fellars, 
let's  go  to  bed." 

They  rolled  out  their  tarpaulins,  Dale  sharing  Roy's 
blankets,  and  soon  were  asleep,  while  the  red  embers 
glowly  faded,  and  the  great  roar  of  wind  died  down,  and 
the  forest  stillness  set  in. 

30 


CHAPTER  IV 

HELEN  RAYNER  had  been  on  the  westbound  over- 
land train  fully  twenty-four  hours  before  she  made 
an  alarming  discovery. 

Accompanied  by  her  sister  Bo,  a  precocious  girl  of  six- 
teen, Helen  had  left  St.  Joseph  with  a  heart  saddened  by 
farewells  to  loved  ones  at  home,  yet  full  of  thrilling  and 
vivid  anticipations  of  the  strange  life  in  the  Far  West. 
All  her  people  had  the  pioneer  spirit;  love  of  change, 
action,  adventure,  was  in  her  blood.  Then  duty  to  a 
widowed  mother  with  a  large  and  growing  family  had 
called  to  Helen  to  accept  this  rich  uncle's  offer.  She  had 
taught  school  and  also  her  little  brothers  and  sisters;  she 
had  helped  along  in  other  ways.  And  now,  though  the 
tearing  up  of  the  roots  of  old  loved  ties  was  hard,  this 
opportunity  was  irresistible  in  its  call.  The  prayer  of  her 
dreams  had  been  answered.  To  bring  good  fortune  to 
her  family;  to  take  care  of  this  beautiful,  wild  little  sister; 
to  leave  the  yellow,  sordid,  humdrum  towns  for  the  great, 
rolling,  boundless  open;  to  live  on  a  wonderful  ranch  that 
was  some  day  to  be  her  own;  to  have  fulfilled  a  deep, 
instinctive,  and  undeveloped  love  of  horses,  cattle,  sheep, 
of  desert  and  mountain,  of  trees  and  brooks  and  wild 
flowers — all  this  was  the  sum  of  her  most  passionate 
longings,  now  in  some  marvelous,  fairylike  way  to  come 
true. 

A  check  to  her  happy  anticipations,  a  blank,  sickening 
dash  of  cold  water  upon  her  warm  and  intimate  dreams, 
had  been  the  discovery  that  Harve  Riggs  was  on  the  train. 

AI 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

His  presence  could  mean  only  one  thing — that  he  had 
followed  her.  Riggs  had  been  the  worst  of  many  sore 
trials  back  there  in  St.  Joseph.  He  had  possessed  some 
claim  or  influence  upon  her  mother,  who  favored  his  offer 
of  marriage  to  Helen;  he  was  neither  attractive,  nor  good, 
nor  industrious,  nor  anything  that  interested  her;  he  was 
the  boastful,  strutting  adventurer,  not  genuinely  Western, 
and  he  affected  long  hair  and  guns  and  notoriety.  Helefl 
had  suspected  the  veracity  of  the  many  fights  he  claimed 
had  been  his,  and  also  she  suspected  that  he  was  no* 
really  big  enough  to  be  bad — as  Western  men  were  bad. 
But  on  the  train,  in  the  station  at  La  Junta,  one  glimps* 
of  him,  manifestly  spying  upon  her  while  trying  to  keejL 
out  of  her  sight,  warned  Helen  that  she  now  might  hav& 
a  problem  on  her  hands. 

The  recognition  sobered  her.  All  was  not  to  be  a  road 
of  roses  to  this  new  home  in  the  West.  Riggs  would  fol- 
low her,  if  he  could  not  accompany  her,  and  to  gain  his 
Own  ends  he  would  stoop  to  anything.  Helen  felt  the 
Startling  realization  of  being  cast  upon  her  own  resources, 
and  then  a  numbing  discouragement  and  loneliness  and 
helplessness.  But  these  feelings  did  not  long  persist  in 
the  quick  pride  and  flash  of  her  temper.  Opportunity 
knocked  at  her  door  and  she  meant  to  be  at  home  to  it, 
She  would  not  have  been  Al  Auchincloss's  niece  if  she 
had  faltered.  And,  when  temper  was  succeeded  by  genu- 
ine anger,  she  could  have  laughed  to  scorn  this  Harve 
Riggs  and  his  schemes,  whatever  they  were.  Once  and 
for  all  she  dismissed  fear  of  him.  When  she  left  St. 
Joseph  she  had  faced  the  West  with  a  beating  heart  and 
a  high  resolve  to  be  worthy  of  that  West.  Homes  had 
to  be  made  out  there  in  that  far  country,  so  Uncle  Al  had 
written,  and  women  were  needed  to  make  homes.  She 
meant  to  be  one  of  these  women  and  to  make  of  her  sistef 
another.  And  with  the  thought  that  she  would  know 
definitely  what  to  say  to  Riggs  when  he  approached  her 
sooner  or  later,  Helen  dismissed  him  from  mind. 

32 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

While  the  train  was  in  motion,  enabling  Helen  to  watch 
the  ever-changing  scenery,  and  resting  her  from  the  strenu- 
ous task  of  keeping  Bo  well  in  hand  at  stations,  she  lapsed 
again  into  dreamy  gaze  at  the  pine  forests  and  the  red, 
rocky  gullies  and  the  dim,  bold  mountains. 

She  saw  the  sun  set  over  distant  ranges  01  New  Mexico 
— a,  golden  blaze  of  glory,  as  new  to  her  as  the  strange 
fancies  born  in  her,  thrilling  and  fleeting  by.  Bo's  rapt* 
ures  were  not  silent,  and  the  instant  the  sun  sank  and  the 
color  faded  she  just  as  rapturously  importuned  Helen  to 
get  out  the  huge  basket  of  food  they  had  brought  from 
home. 

They  had  two  seats,  facing  each  other,  at  the  end  of 
the  coach,  and  piled  there,  with  the  basket  on  top,  was 
luggage  that  constituted  all  the  girls  owned  in  the  world. 
Indeed,  it  was  very  much  more  than  they  had  ever  owned 
before,  because  their  mother,  in  her  care  for  them  and 
desire  to  have  them  look  well  in  the  eyes  of  this  rich  uncle, 
had  spent  money  and  pains  to  give  them  pretty  and  ser- 
viceable clothes. 

The  girls  sat  together,  with  the  heavy  basket  on  theif 
knees,  and  ate  while  they  gazed  out  at  the  cool,  dark 
ridges.  The  train  clattered  slowly  on,  apparently  over 
a  road  that  was  all  curves.  And  it  was  supper-time  for 
everybody  in  that  crowded  coach.  If  Helen  had  not 
been  so  absorbed  by  the  great,  wild  mountain-land  she 
would  have  had  more  interest  in  the  passengers.  As  it 
was  she  saw  them,  and  was  amused  and  thoughtful  at  the 
men  and  women  and  a  few  children  in  the  car,  all  middle- 
class  people,  poor  and  hopeful,  traveling  out  there  to  the 
New  West  to  find  homes.  It  was  splendid  and  beautiful, 
this  fact,  yet  it  inspired  a  brief  and  inexplicable  sadness. 
From  the  train  window,  that  world  of  forest  and  crag, 
with  its  long  bare  reaches  between,  seemed  so  lonely,  so 
wild,  so  unlivable.  How  endless  the  distance !  For  hours 
and  miles  upon  miles  no  house,  no  hut,  no  Indian  tepee! 
It  was  amazing,  tha  length  and  breadth  of  this  beautiful 

33 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

land.     And  Helen,  who  loved  brooks  and  running  streams^ 
saw  no  water  at  all. 

Then  darkness  settled  down  over  the  slow-moving 
panorama;  a  cool  night  wind  blew  in  at  the  window; 
white  stars  began  to  blink  out  of  the  blue.  The  sisters, 
with  hands  clasped  and  heads  nestled  together,  went  to 
deep  under  a  heavy  cloak. 

Earl}*  the  next  morning,  while  the  girls  were  again 
delving  into  their  apparently  bottomless  basket,  the  train 
stopped  at  Las  Vegas. 

"Look!  Look!"  cried  Bo,  in  thrilling  voice.  "Cow- 
boys! Oh,  Nell,  look!" 

Helen,  laughing,  looked  first  at  her  sister,  and  thought 
how  most  of  all  she  was  good  to  look  at.  Bo  was  little, 
instinct  with  pulsating  life,  and  she  had  chestnut  hair  and 
dark-blue  eyes.  These  eyes  were  flashing,  roguish,  and 
they  drew  like  magnets. 

Outside  on  the  rude  station  platform  were  railroad  men, 
Mexicans,  and  a  group  of  lounging  cowboys.  Long,  lean, 
bow-legged  fellows  they  were,  with  young,  frank  faces 
and  intent  eyes.  One  of  them  seemed  particularly  attrac- 
tive with  his  superb  build,  his  red-bronze  face  and  bright- 
red  scarf,  his  swinging  gun,  and  the  huge,  long,  curved 
Spurs.  Evidently  he  caught  Bo's  admiring  gaze,  for,  with 
a  word  to  his  companions,  he  sauntered  toward  the  win- 
dow where  the  girls  sat.  His  gait  was  singular,  almost 
awkward,  as  if  he  was  not  accustomed  to  walking.  The 
long  spurs  jingled  musically.  He  removed  his  sombrero 
and  stood  at  ease,  frank,  cool,  smiling.  Helen  liked  him 
on  sight,  and,  looking  to  see  what  effect  he  had  upon  Bo, 
she  found  that  young  lady  staring,  frightened  stiff. 

"Good  mawnin',"  drawled  the  cowboy,  with  slowB 
good-humored  smile.  "Now  where  might  you-all  be 
travelin'?" 

The  sound  of  his  voice,  the  clean-cut  and  droll  geniality* 
seemed  new  and  delightful  to  Helen. 

34 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

41  We  go  to  Magdalena — then  take  stage  for  the  White 

Mountains,"  replied  Helen. 

The  cowboy's  still,  intent  eyes  showed  surprise. 

"Apache  country,  miss,"  he  said.  "  I  reckon  I'm  sorry. 
Thet's  shore  no  place  for  you-all.  .  .  .  Beggin'  your  pawdin 
— you  ain't  Mormons?" 

"No.     We're  nieces  of  Al  Auchincloss,"  rejoined  Helen. 

"Wai,  you  don't  say!  I've  been  down  Magdalena  way 
an'  heerd  of  Al.  .  .  .  Reckon  you're  goin'  a-visitin'  ? " 

"It's  to  be  home  for  us." 

"Shore  thet's  fine.  The  West  needs  girls.  .  .  .  Yes,  I've 
heerd  of  Al.  An  old  Arizona  cattle-man  in  a  sheep  coun- 
try! Thet's  bad.  .  .  .  Now  I'm  wonderin'— if  I'd  drift 
down  there  an'  ask  him  for  a  job  ridin'  for  him — would  I 
get  it?" 

His  lazy  smile  was  infectious  and  his  meaning  was  as 
clear  as  crystal  water.  The  gaze  he  bent  upon  Bo  some- 
how pleased  Helen.  The  last  year  or  two,  since  Bo  had 
grown  prettier  all  the  time,  she  had  been  a  magnet  for 
admiring  glances.  This  one  of  the  cowboy's  inspired 
respect  and  liking,  as  well  as  amusement.  It  certainly 
was  not  lost  upon  Bo. 

"My  uncle  once  said  in  a  letter  that  he  never  had 
enough  men  to  run  his  ranch,"  replied  Helen,  smiling. 

"Shore  I'll  go.  I  reckon  I'd  jest  naturally  drift  that 
way — now." 

He  seemed  so  laconic,  so  easy,  so  nice,  that  he  could 
not  have  been  taken  seriously,  yet  Helen's  quick  per- 
ceptions registered  a  daring,  a  something  that  was  both 
sudden  and  inevitable  in  him.  His  last  word  was  as  clear 
as  the  soft  look  he  fixed  upon  Bo. 

Helen  had  a  mischievous  trait,  which,  subdue  it  as  she 
would,  occasionally  cropped  out;  and  Bo,  who  once  in 
her  wilful  life  had  been  rendered  speechless,  offered  such 
a  temptation. 

"  Maybe  my  little  sister  will  put  in  a  good  word  for  you 
—to  Uncle  Al,"  said  Helen.  Just  then  the  train  jerked. 

35 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

and  started  slowly.  The  cowboy  took  two  long  strides 
beside  the  car,  his  heated  boyish  face  almost  on  a  level 
with  the  window,  his  eyes,  now  shy  and  a  little  wistful, 
yet  bold,  too,  fixed  upon  Bo. 

"Good-by— -  Sweetheart!"  he  called. 

He  halted — was  lost  to  view. 

"Well!"  ejaculated  Helen,  contritely,  half  sorry,  half 
amused.  "What  a  sudden  young  gentleman!'* 

Bo  had  blushed  beautifully. 

' '  Nell,  wasn't  he  glorious !' '  she  burst  out ,  with  eyes  shining, 

"I'd  hardly  call  him  that,  but  he  was — nice,"  replied 
Helen,  much  relieved  that  Bo  had  apparently  not  taken 
offense  at  her. 

It  appeared  plain  that  Bo  resisted  a  frantic  desire  to 
look  out  of  the  window  and  to  wave  her  hand.  But  she 
only  peeped  out,  manifestly  to  her  disappointment. 

"  Do  you  think  he— he'll  come  to  Uncle  Al's? "  asked  Bo. 

"Child,  he  was  only  in  fun." 

"Nell,  I'll  bet  you  he  comes.  Oh,  it  'd  be  great!  I'm 
going  to  love  cowboys.  They  don't  look  like  that  Harve 
Riggs  who  ran  after  you  so." 

Helen  sighed,  partly  because  of  the  reminder  of  her 
odious  suitor,  and  partly  because  Bo's  future  already 
called  mysteriously  to  the  child.  Helen  had  to  be  at 
once  a  mother  and  a  protector  to  a  girl  of  intense  and 
wilful  spirit. 

One  of  the  trainmen  directed  the  girls'  attention  to  a 
green,  sloping  mountain  rising  to  a  bold,  blunt  bluff  of 
bare  rock;  and,  calling  it  Starvation  Peak,  he  told  a 
story  of  how  Indians  had  once  driven  Spaniards  up  there 
and  starved  them.  Bo  was  intensely  interested,  and 
thereafter  she  watched  more  keenly  than  ever,  and  always 
had  a  question  for  a  passing  trainman.  The  adobe  houses 
of  the  Mexicans  pleased  her,  and  when  the  train  got  out 
into  Indian  country,  where  pueblos  appeared  near  the 
track  and  Indians  with  their  bright  colors  and  shaggy 
wild  mustangs — then  she  was  enraptured, 

36 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"But  these  Indians  are  peaceful!"  she  exclaimed  once, 
regretfully. 

" Gracious,  child!  You  don't  want  to  see  hostile  Ind- 
ians, do  you?"  queried  Helen. 

"I  do,  you  bet,"  was  the  frank  rejoinder. 

"Well,  /'//  bet  that  111  be  sorry  I  didn't  leave  you  with 
mother." 

"Nell — you  never  will!" 

They  reached  Albuquerque  about  noon,  and  this  im- 
portant station,  where  they  had  to  change  trains,  had 
been  the  first  dreaded  anticipation  of  the  journey.  It 
certainly  was  a  busy  place — full  of  jabbering  Mexicans, 
stalking,  red-faced,  wicked-looking  cowboys,  lolling  Ind-| 
ians.  In  the  confusion  Helen  would  have  been  hard  put 
to  it  to  preserve  calmness,  with  Bo  to  watch,  and  all  that 
baggage  to  carry,  and  the  other  train  to  find;  bat  the 
kindly  brakeman  who  had  been  attentive  to  them  now 
helped  them  off  the  train  into  the  other — a  service  for 
which  Helen  was  very  grateful. 

"Albuquerque's  a  hard  place,"  confided  the  trainman. 
"Better  stay  in  the  car — and  don't  hang  out  the  windows. 
.  .  .  Good  luck  to  you!" 

Only  a  few  passengers  were  in  the  car  and  they  were 
Mexicans  at  the  forward  end.  This  branch  train  consisted 
of  one  passenger-coach,  with  a  baggage-car,  attached  to  a 
string  of  freight-cars.  Helen  told  herself,  somewhat 
grimly,  that  soon  she  would  know  surely  whether  or  not 
her  suspicions  of  Harve  Riggs  had  warrant.  If  he  was 
going  on  to  Magdalena  on  that  day  he  must  go  in  this 
coach.  Presently  Bo,  who  was  not  obeying  admonitions, 
drew  her  head  out  of  the  window.  Her  eyes  were  wide  in 
amaze,  her  mouth  open. 

"Nell!  I  saw  that  man  Riggs!"  she  whispered.  "He's 
going  to  get  on  this  train." 

"Bo,  I  saw  him  yesterday,"  replied  Helen,  soberly. 

"He's  followed  you— the— the— " 

37 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Now,  Bo,  don't  get  excited,"  remonstrated  Helen. 
J<  We've  left  home  now.  We've  got  to  take  things  as 
they  come.  Never  mind  if  Riggs  has  followed  me.  I'll 
settle  him." 

"Oh!  Then  you  won't  speak — have  anything  to  do 
with  him?" 

"I  won't  if  I  can  help  it." 

Other  passengers  boarded  the  train,  dusty,  uncouth, 
rugged  men,  and  some  hard-featured,  poorly  clad  women, 
marked  by  toil,  and  several  more  Mexicans.  With  bustle 
and  loud  talk  they  found  their  several  seats. 

Then  Helen  saw  Harve  Riggs  enter,  burdened  with 
much  luggage.  He  was  a  man  of  about  medium  height, 
of  dark,  flashy  appearance,  cultivating  long  black  mus- 
tache and  hair.  His  apparel  was  striking,  as  it  consisted 
of  black  frock-coat,  black  trousers  stuffed  in  high,  fancy- 
topped  boots,  an  embroidered  vest,  and  flowing  tie,  and 
a  black  sombrero.  His  belt  and  gun  were  prominent.  It 
was  sionificant  that  he  excited  comment  among  the  other 
passengers. 

When  he  had  deposited  his  pieces  of  baggage  he  seemed 
to  square  himself,  and,  turning  abruptly,  approached  the 
seat  occupied  by  the  girls.  When  he  reached  it  he  sat 
down  upon  the  arm  of  the  one  opposite,  took  off  his  som- 
brero, and  deliberately  looked  at  Helen.  His  eyes  were 
light,  glinting,  with  hard,  restless  quiver,  and  his  mouth 
was  coarse  and  arrogant.  Helen  had  never  seen  him  de- 
tached from  her  home  surroundings,  and  now  the  differ- 
ence struck  cold  upon  her  heart. 

"Hello,  Nell!"  he  said.     "Surprised  to  see  me?" 

"No,"  she  replied,  coldly. 

"I'll  gamble  you  are." 

"  Harve  Riggs,  I  told  you  the  day  before  I  left  home  tha* 
nothing  you  could  do  or  say  mattered  to  me." 

"Reckon  that  ain't  so,  Nell.  Any  woman  I  keep  track 
af  has  reason  to  think.  An'  you  know  it." 

"Then  you  followed  me  —  out  here?"  demanded 

38 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Helen,  and  her  voice,  despite  her  control,  quivered  with 
anger. 

"  I  sure  did,"  he  replied,  and  there  was  as  much  thought 
of  himself  in  the  act  as  there  was  of  her. 

"Why?    Why?    It's  useless— hopeless." 

"  I  swore  I'd  have  you,  or  nobody  else  would,"  he  replied, 
end  here,  in  the  passion  of  his  voice  there  sounded  egotism 
rather  than  hunger  for  a  woman's  love.  "But  I  reckon 
I'd  have  struck  West  anyhow,  sooner  or  later." 

"You're  not  going  to — all  the  way — to  Pine?"  faltered 
Helen,  momentarily  weakening. 

"Nell,  I'll  camp  on  your  trail  from  now  on,"  he  de- 
clared. 

Then  Bo  sat  bolt-upright,  with  pale  face  and  flashing 
eyes. 

"Harve  Riggs,  you  leave  Nell  alone,"  she  burst  out,  in 
ringing,  brave  young  voice.  "I'll  tell  you  what — I'll  bet 
5 — if  you  follow  her  and  nag  her  any  more,  my  uncle  Al  or 
some  cowboy  will  run  you  out  of  the  country." 

"Hello,  Pepper!"  replied  Riggs,  coolly.  "I  see  your 
manners  haven't  improved  an'  you're  still  wild  about 
cowboys." 

"People  don't  have  good  manners  with — with — " 

"Bo,  hush!"  admonished  Helen.  It  was  difficult  to 
reprove  Bo  just  then,  for  that  young  lady  had  not  the 
slightest  fear  of  Riggs.  Indeed,  she  looked  as  if  she  could 
slap  his  face.  And  Helen  realized  that  however  her  in- 
telligence had  grasped  the  possibilities  of  leaving  home 
for  a  wild  country,  and  whatever  her  determination  to  be 
brave,  the  actual  beginning  of  self-reliance  had  left  her 
spirit  weak.  She  would  rise  out  of  that.  But  just  now 
this  flashing-eyed  little  sister  seemed  a  protector.  Bo 
would  readily  adapt  herself  to  the  West,  Helen  thought, 
because  she  was  so  young,  primitive,  elemental. 

Whereupon  Bo  turned  her  back  to  Riggs  and  looked  out 
of  the  window.  The  man  laughed.  Then  he  stood  up 
and  leaned  over  Helen. 

39 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Nell,  I'm  goin'  wherever  you  go,"  he  said,  steadily. 
"You  can  take  that  friendly  or  not,  just  as  it  pleases  you. 
But  if  you've  got  any  sense  you'll  not  give  these  people 
out  here  a  hunch  against  me.  I  might  hurt  somebody. 
.  .  .  An*  wouldn't  it  be  better  to  act  friends?  For  I'm 
goin'  to  look  after  you,  whether  you  like  it  or  not." 

Helen  had  considered  this  man  an  annoyance,  and  later 
a  menace,  and  now  she  must  declare  open  enmity  with 
him.  However  disgusting  the  idea  that  he  considered 
himself  a  factor  in  her  new  life,  it  was  the  truth.  He 
existed,  he  had  control  over  his  movements.  She  could 
not  change  that.  She  hated  the  need  of  thinking  so  much 
about  him;  and  suddenly,  with  a  hot,  bursting  anger,  she 
hated  the  man. 

"You'll  not  look  after  me.  I'll  take  care  of  myself," 
she  said,  and  she  turned  her  back  upon  him.  She  heard 
him  mutter  under  his  breath  and  slowly  move  away  down 
the  car.  Then  Bo  slipped  a  hand  in  hers. 

"  Never  mind,  Nell,"  she  whispered.  "  You  know  what 
old  Sheriff  Haines  said  about  Harve  Riggs.  '  A  four-flush 
would-be  gun-fighter!  If  he  ever  strikes  a  real  Western 
town  he'll  get  run  out  of  it.'  I  just  wish  my  red-faced 
cowboy  had  got  on  this  train!" 

Helen  felt  a  rush  of  gladness  that  she  had  yielded  to 
Bo's  wild  importunities  to  take  her  West.  The  spirit 
which  had  made  Bo  incorrigible  at  home  probably  would 
Jfcake  her  react  happily  to  life  out  in  this  free  country. 
Yet  Helen,  with  all  her  warmth  and  gratefulness,  had  to 
laugh  at  her  sister. 

"Your  red-faced  cowboy!  Why,  Bo,  you  were  scared 
stiff.  And  now  you  claim  him !" 

"I  certainly  could  love  that  fellow,"  replied  Bo, 
dreamily. 

"Child,  you've  been  saying  that  about  fellows  for  a 
long  time.  And  you've  never  looked  twice  at  any  of 
them  yet." 

"He  was  different Nell,  I'll  bet  he  comes  to  Pine." 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"I  hope  he  does.  I  wish  he  was  on  this  train  J  liked 
his  looks,  Bo." 

"Well,  Nell  dear,  he  looked  at  me  first  and  last — so 
don't  get  your  hopes  up.  ...  Oh,  the  tram's  starting!  .  .  . 
Good-by,  Albu-ker — what's  that  awful  name?  .  .  .  Nell, 
let's  eat  dinner.  I'm  starved." 

Then  Helen  forgot  her  troubles  and  the  uncertain 
future,  and  what  with  listening  to  Bo's  chatter,  and  par- 
taking again  of  the  endless  good  things  to  eat  in  the  huge 
basket,  and  watching  the  noble  mountains,  she  drew  once 
more  into  happy  mood. 

The  valley  of  the  Rio  Grande  opened  to  view,  wide  near 
at  hand  in  a  great  gray-green  gap  between  the  bare  black 
mountains,  narrow  in  the  distance,  where  the  yellow  river 
wound  away,  glistening  under  a  hot  sun.  Bo  squealed  in 
glee  at  sight  of  naked  little  Mexican  children  that  darted 
into  adobe  huts  as  the  train  clattered  by,  and  she  exclaimed 
her  pleasure  in  the  Indians,  and  the  mustangs,  and  par- 
ticularly in  a  group  of  cowboys  riding  into  town  on 
spirited  horses.  Helen  saw  all  Bo  pointed  out,  but  it  was 
to  the  wonderful  rolling  valley  that  her  gaze  clung  longest, 
and  to  the  dim  purple  distance  that  seemed  to  hold  some- 
thing from  her.  She  had  never  before  experienced  any 
feeling  like  that;  she  had  never  seen  a  tenth  so  far.  And 
the  sight  awoke  something  strange  in  her.  The  sun  was 
burning  hot,  as  she  could  tell  when  she  put  a  hand  outside 
the  window,  and  a  strong  wind  blew  sheets  of  dry  dust  at 
the  train.  She  gathered  at  once  what  tremendous  factors 
in  the  Southwest  were  the  sun  and  the  dust  and  the  wind. 
And  her  realization  made  her  love  them.  It  was  there; 
the  open,  the  wild,  the  beautiful,  the  lonely  land;  and  she 
felt  the  poignant  call  of  blood  in  her — to  seek,  to  strive,  to 
find,  to  live.  One  look  down  that  yellow  valley,  endless 
between  its  dark  iron  ramparts,  had  given  her  under- 
standing of  her  uncle.  She  must  be  like  him  in  spirit,  as 
it  was  claimed  she  resembled  him  otherwise. 

At  length  Bo  grew  tired  of  watching  scenery  that  con- 
4  4i 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

tained  no  life,  and,  with  her  bright  head  on  the  faded 
cloak,  she  went  to  sleep.  But  Helen  kept  steady,  far- 
seeing  gaze  out  upon  that  land  of  rock  and  plain;  and 
during  the  long  hours,  as  she  watched  through  clouds  of 
dust  and  veils  of  heat,  some  strong  and  doubtful  and 
restless  sentiment  seemed  to  change  and  then  to  fix.  It 
was  her  physical  acceptance — her  eyes  and  her  senses 
taking  the  West  as  she  had  already  taken  it  in  spirit. 

A  woman  should  love  her  home  wherever  fate  placed 
her,  Helen  believed,  and  not  so  much  from  duty  as  from 
delight  and  romance  and  living.  How  could  life  ever  be 
tedious  or  monotonous  out  here  in  this  tremendous  vast- 
ness  of  bare  earth  and  open  sky,  where  the  need  to  achieve 
made  thinking  and  pondering  superficial? 

It  was  with  regret  that  she  saw  the  last  of  the  valley  of 
the  Rio  Grande,  and  then  of  its  paralleled  mountain 
ranges.  But  the  miles  brought  compensation  in  other 
valleys,  other  bold,  black  upheavals  of  rock,  and  then 
again  bare,  boundless  yellow  plains,  and  sparsely  cedared 
ridges,  and  white  dry  washes,  ghastly  in  the  sunlight,  and 
dazzling  beds  of  alkali,  and  then  a  desert  space  where 
golden  and  blue  flowers  bloomed. 

She  noted,  too,  that  the  whites  and  yellows  of  earth  and 
rock  had  begun  to  shade  to  red — and  this  she  knew  meant 
an  approach  to  Arizona.  Arizona,  the  wild,  the  lonely, 
the  red  desert,  the  green  plateau — Arizona  with  its  thun- 
dering rivers,  its  unknown  spaces,  its  pasture-lands  and 
timber-lands,  its  wild  horses,  cowboys,  outlaws,  wolves 
and  lions  and  savages!  As  to  a  boy,  that  name  stirred 
and  thrilled  and  sang  to  her  of  nameless,  sweet,  intangible 
things,  mysterious  and  all  of  adventure.  But  she,  being 
a  girl  of  twenty,  who  had  accepted  responsibilities,  must 
conceal  the  depths  of  her  heart  and  that  which  her  mother 
had  complained  was  her  misfortune  in  not  being  born  a 
boy. 

Time  passed,  while  Helen  watched  and  learned  and 
dreamed.  The  train  stopped,  at  long  intervals,  at  way* 

42 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

side  stations  where  there  seemed  nothing  but  adobe  sheds 
and  lazy  Mexicans,  and  dust  and  heat.  Bo  awoke  and 
began  to  chatter,  and  to  dig  into  the  basket.  She  learned 
from  the  conductor  that  Magdalena  was  only  two  stations 
on.  And  she  was  full  of  conjectures  as  to  who  would 
meet  them,  what  would  happen.  So  Helen  was  drawn 
back  to  sober  realities,  in  which  there  was  considerable 
zest.  Assuredly  she  did  not  know  what  was  going  to 
happen.  Twice  Riggs  passed  up  and  down  the  aisle,  his 
dark  face  and  light  eyes  and  sardonic  smile  deliberately 
forced  upon  her  sight.  But  again  Helen  fought  a  growing 
dread  with  contemptuous  scorn.  This  fellow  was  not  half 
a  man.  It  was  not  conceivable  what  he  could  do,  except 
annoy  her,  until  she  arrived  at  Pine.  Her  uncle  was  to 
meet  her  or  send  for  her  at  Snowdrop,  which  place,  Helen 
knew,  was  distant  a  good  long  ride  by  stage  from  Mag- 
dalena. This  stage-ride  was  the  climax  and  the  dread  of 
all  the  long  journey,  in  Helen's  considerations. 

"Oh,  Nell!"  cried  Bo,  with  delight.  "We're  nearly 
there!  Next  station,  the  conductor  said." 

"I  wonder  if  the  stage  travels  at  night,"  said  Helen, 
thoughtfully. 

"Sure  it  does!"  replied  the  irrepressible  Bo. 

The  train,  though  it  clattered  along  as  usual,  seemed  to 
Helen  to  fly.  There  the  sun  was  setting  over  bleak  New 
Mexican  bluffs,  Magdalena  was  at  hand,  and  night,  and 
adventure.  Helen's  heart  beat  fast.  She  watched  the 
yellow  plains  where  the  cattle  grazed;  their  presence,  and 
irrigation  ditches  and  cot  ton  wood-trees  told  her  that  the 
railroad  part  of  the  journey  was  nearly  ended.  Then, 
at  Bo's  little  scream,  she  looked  across  the  car  and  out  of 
the  window  to  see  a  line  of  low,  flat,  red-adobe  houses. 
The  train  began  to  slow  down.  Helen  saw  children  run, 
white  children  and  Mexican  together;  then  more  houses, 
and  high  upon  a  hill  an  immense  adobe  church,  crude  and 
glaring,  yet  somehow  beautiful. 

Helen  told  Bo  to  put  on  her  bonnet,  and,  performing  a 

43 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

like  office  for  herself,  she  was  ashamed  of  the  trembling 
of  her  fingers.     There  were  bustle  and  talk  in  the  car. 

The  train  stopped.  Helen  peered  out  to  see  a  straggling 
crowd  of  Mexicans  and  Indians,  all  motionless  and  stolid, 
as  if  trains  or  nothing  else  mattered.  Next  Helen  saw  a 
white  man,  and  that  was  a  relief.  He  stood  out  in  front 
of  the  others.  Tall  and  broad,  somehow  striking,  he  drew 
a  second  glance  that  showed  him  to  be  a  hunter  clad  in 
gray-fringed  buckskin,  anH  carrying  a  rifle. 


CHAPTER  V 

HERE  there  was  no  kindly  brakeman  to  help  the  sisters 
with  their  luggage.      Helen  bade  Bo  take  her  share; 
thus  burdened,  they  made  an  awkward  and  laborious  shift 
to  get  off  the  train. 

Upon  the  platform  of  the  car  a  strong  hand  seized 
Helen's  heavy  bag,  with  which  she  was  straining,  and  a 
loud  voice  called  out: 

"Girls,  we're  here — sure  out  in  the  wild  an'  woolly 
West!" 

The  speaker  was  Riggs,  and  he  had  possessed  himself 
of  part  of  her  baggage  with  action  and  speech  meant  more 
to  impress  the  curious  crowd  than  to  be  really  kind.  In 
the  excitement  of  arriving  Helen  had  forgotten  him.  The 
manner  of  sudden  reminder — the  insincerity  of  it — made 
her  temper  flash.  She  almost  fell,  encumbered  as  she 
was,  in  her  hurry  to  descend  the  steps.  She  saw  the  tall 
hunter  in  gray  step  forward  close  to  her  as  she  reached  for 
the  bag  Riggs  held. 

"Mr.  Riggs,  I'll  carry  my  bag,"  she  said. 

"Let  me  lug  this.  You  help  Bo  with  hers,"  he  replied, 
familiarly. 

"But  I  want  it,"  she  rejoined,  quietly,  with  sharp  de- 
termination. No  little  force  was  needed  to  pull  the  bag 
away  from  Riggs. 

"See  here,  Helen,  you  ain't  goin'  any  farther  with  that 
joke,  are  you?"  he  queried,  deprecatingly,  and  he  still 
spoke  quite  loud. 

"It's  no  joke  to  me,"  replied  Helen.  "I  told  you  I 
didn't  want  your  attention." 

45 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"Sure.  But  that  was  temper.  I'm  your  friend — from 
your  home  town.  An'  I  ain't  goin'  to  let  a  quarrel 
keep  me  from  lookin'  after  you  till  you're  safe  at  your 
uncle's." 

Helen  turned  her  back  upon  him.  The  tall  hunter  had 
just  helped  Bo  off  the  car.  Then  Helen  looked  up  into 
a  smooth  bronzed  face  and  piercing  gray  eyes. 

"Are  you  Helen  Rayner?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"My  name's  Dale.     I've  come  to  meet  you." 

"Ah!  My  uncle  sent  you?"  added  Helen,  in  quick 
relief. 

"No;  I  can't  say  Al  sent  me,"  began  the  man,  "but  I 
reckon — " 

He  was  interrupted  by  Riggs,  who,  grasping  Helen  by 
the  arm,  pulled  her  back  a  step. 

"Say,  mister,  did  Auchincloss  send  you  to  meet  my 
young  friends  here?"  he  demanded,  arrogantly. 

Dale's  glance  turned  from  Helen  to  Riggs.  She  could 
not  read  this  quiet  gray  gaze,  but  it  thrilled  her. 

"  No.     I  come  on  my  own  hook,"  he  answered. 

"  You'll  understand,  then — they're  in  my  charge,"  added 
Riggs. 

This  time  the  steady  light-gray  eyes  met  Helen's,  and 
if  there  was  not  a  smile  in  them  or  behind  them  she  was 
Rtill  further  baffled. 

"Helen,  I  reckon  you  said  you  didn't  want  this  fellow's 
attention. " 

"I  certainly  said  that,"  replied  Helen,  quickly.  Just 
then  Bo  slipped  close  to  her  and  gave  her  arm  a  little 
squeeze.  Probably  Bo's  thought  was  like  hers — here  was 
a  real  Western  man.  That  was  her  first  impression,  and 
following  swiftly  upon  it  was  a  sensation  of  eased  nerves. 

Riggs  swaggered  closer  to  Dale. 

"Say,  Buckskin,  I  hail  from  Texas—" 

"You're  wastin'  our  time  an'  we've  need  to  hurry," 
interrupted  Dale.  His  tone  seemed  friendly.  "An'  if 

46 


THE  MAN  OF    THE  FOREST 

you  ever  lived  long  in  Texas  you  wouldn't  pester  a  lady 
an'  you  sure  wouldn't  talk  like  you  do." 

"What!"  shouted  Riggs,  hotly.  He  dropped  his  right 
hand  significantly  to  his  hip. 

"Don't  throw  your  gun.     It  might  go  off,"  said  Dale. 

Whatever  Riggs's  intention  had  been — and  it  was  prob- 
ably just  what  Dale  evidently  had  read  it — he  now  flushed 
an  angry  red  and  jerked  at  his  gun. 

Dale's  hand  flashed  too  swiftly  for  Helen's  eye  to  fol- 
low it.  But  she  heard  the  thud  as  it  struck.  The  gun 
went  flving  to  the  platform  and  scattered  a  group  of 
Indians  and  Mexicans. 

"You'll  hurt  yourself  some  day,"  said  Dale. 

Helen  had  never  heard  a  slow,  cool  voice  like  this 
hunter's.  Without  excitement  or  emotion  or  hurry,  it 
yet  seemed  full  and  significant  of  thing  the  words  did 
not  mean.  Bo  uttered  a  strange  little  exultant  cry. 

Riggs's  arm  had  dropped  limp.  No  doubt  it  was  numb. 
He  stared,  and  his  predominating  expression  was  surprise. 
As  the  shuffling  crowd  began  to  snicker  and  whisper, 
Riggs  gave  Dale  a  malignant  glance,  shifted  it  to 
Helen,  and  then  lurched  away  in  the  direction  of  his  gun. 

Dale  did  not  pay  any  more  attention  to  him.  Gather- 
ing up  Helen's  baggage,  he  said,  "Come  on,"  and  shoul- 
dered a  lane  through  the  gaping  crowd.  The  girls  fol- 
lowed close  at  his  heels. 

"Nell!  what'd  I  tell  you?"  whispered  Bo.  "Oh, 
you're  all  atremble!" 

Helen  was  aware  of  her  unsteadiness;  anger  and  fear 
and  relief  in  quick  succession  had  left  her  rather  weak. 
Once  through  the  motley  crowd  of  loungers,  she  saw  an 
old  gray  stage-coach  and  four  lean  horses.  A  grizzled, 
sunburned  man  sat  on  the  driver's  seat,  whip  and  reins  in 
hand.  Beside  him  was  a  younger  man  with  rifle  across 
his  knees.  Another  man,  young,  tall,  lean,  dark,  stood 
holding  the  coach  door  open.  He  touched  his  sombrero 
to  the  girls.  His  eyes  were  sharp  as  he  addressed  Dale. 

47 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"Milt,  wasn't  you  held  up?" 

"No.  But  some  long-haired  galoot  was  tryin'  to  hold 
ip  the  girls.  Wanted  to  throw  his  gun  on  me.  I  was 
sure  scared,"  replied  Dale,  as  he  deposited  the  luggage. 

Bo  laughed.  Her  eyes,  resting  upon  Dale,  were  warm 
and  bright.  The  young  man  at  the  coach  door  took  a 
second  look  at  her,  and  then  a  smile  changed  the  dark 
hardness  of  his  face. 

Dale  helped  the  girls  up  the  high  step  into  the  stage, 
and  then,  placing  the  lighter  luggage  in  with  them,  he 
threw  the  heavier  pieces  on  top. 

"Joe,  climb  up,"  he  said. 

"Wai,  Milt,"  drawled  the  driver,   "let's  ooze  along." 

Dale  hesitated,  with  his  hand  on  the  door.  He 
glanced  at  the  crowd,  now  edging  close  again,  and  then 
at  Helen. 

"I  reckon  I  ought  to  tell  you,"  he  said,  and  indecision 
appeared  to  concern  him. 

"What?"  exclaimed  Helen. 

"Bad  news.  But  talkin'  takes  time.  An'  we  mustn't 
lose  any." 

"There's  need  of  hurry?"  queried  Helen,  sitting  up 
sharply. 

"I  reckon." 

"Is  this  the  stage  to  Snowdrop?" 

"No.  That  leaves  in  the  mornin'.  We  rustled  this 
old  trap  to  get  a  start  to-night." 

"The  sooner  the  better.  But  I — I  don't  understand," 
said  Helen,  bewildered. 

"  It  '11  not  be  safe  for  you  to  ride  on  the  mornin'  stage," 
returned  Dale. 

"Safe!  Oh,  what  do  you  mean?"  exclaimed  Helen. 
Apprehensively  she  gazed  at  him  and  then  back  at  Bo. 

"Explainin*  will  take  time.  An*  facts  may  change 
your  mind.  But  if  you  can't  trust  me — " 

"Trust  you?"  interposed  Helen,  blankly.  "You  mean 
to  take  us  to  Snowdrop?" 

48 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"I  reckon  we'd  better  go  roundabout  an'  not  hit  Snow< 
drop,"  he  replied,  shortly. 

"Then  to  Pine — to  my  uncle — Al  Auchincloss?" 

"Yes,  I'm  goin'  to  try  hard." 

Helen  caught  her  breath.  She  divined  that  some  peril 
menaced  her.  She  looked  steadily,  with  all  a  woman's 
keenness,  into  this  man's  face.  The  moment  was  one  of 
the  fateful  decisions  she  knew  the  West  had  in  store  for 
her.  Her  future  and  that  of  Bo's  were  now  to  be  depend- 
ent upon  her  judgments.  It  was  a  hard  moment  and, 
though  she  shivered  inwardly,  she  welcomed  the  initial 
and  inevitable  step.  This  man  Dale,  by  his  dress  01  buck- 
skin, must  be  either  scout  or  hunter.  His  size,  his 
action,  the  tone  of  his  voice  had  been  reassuring.  But 
Helen  must  decide  from  what  she  saw  in  his  face  whether 
or  not  to  trust  him.  And  that  face  was  clear  bronze, 
unlined,  unshadowed,  like  a  tranquil  mask,  clean-cut, 
strong-jawed,  with  eyes  of  wonderful  transparent  gray. 

"Yes,  I'll  trust  you,"  she  said.  "Get  in,  and  let  us 
hurry.  Then  you  can  explain." 

"All  ready,  Bill.     Send  'em  along,"  called  Dale. 

He  had  to  stoop  to  enter  the  stage,  and,  once  in,  he 
appeared  to  fill  that  side  upon  which  he  sat.  Then  the 
driver  cracked  his  whip;  the  stage  lurched  and  began  to 
roll;  the  motley  crowd  was  left  behind.  Helen  awakened 
to  the  reality,  as  she  saw  Bo  staring  with  big  eyes  at  the 
hunter,  that  a  stranger  adventure  than  she  had  ever 
dreamed  of  had  begun  with  the  rattling  roll  of  that  old 
stage-coach. 

Dale  laid  off  his  sombrero  and  leaned  forward,  holding 
his  rifle  between  his  knees.  The  light  shone  better  upon 
his  features  now  that  he  was  bareheaded.  Helen  had 
never  seen  a  face  like  that,  which  at  first  glance  appeared 
darkly  bronzed  and  hard,  and  then  became  clear,  cold, 
aloof,  still,  intense.  She  wished  she  might  see  a  smile 
upon  it.  And  now  that  the  die  was  cast  she  could  not 
tell  why  she  had  trusted  it.  There  was  singular  force  in 

4Q 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

it,  but  she  did  not  recognize  what  kind  of  force.  One 
instant  she  thought  it  was  stern,  and  the  next  that  it  was 
sweet,  and  again  that  it  was  neither. 

"I'm  glad  you've  got  your  sister,"  he  said,  presently. 

"How  did  you  know  she's  my  sister?" 

"I  reckon  she  looks  like  you." 

"No  one  else  ever  thought  so,"  replied  Hefen,  trying 
to  smile. 

Bo  had  no  difficulty  in  smiling,  as  she  said,  "Wish  I 
was  half  as  pretty  as  Nell." 

"Nell.     Isn't  your  name  Helen?"  queried  Dale. 

"Yes.     But  my — some  few  call  me  Nell." 

"I  like  Nell  better  than  Helen.  An'  what's  yours?" 
went  on  Dale,  looking  at  Bo. 

"Mine's  Bo.  Just  plain  B-o.  Isn't  it  silly?  But  I 
wasn't  asked  when  they  gave  it  to  me,"  she  replied. 

"Bo.  It's  nice  an'  short.  Never  heard  it  before. 
But  I  haven't  met  many  people  for  years." 

"Oh!  we've  left  the  town!"  cried  Bo.  "Look,  Nell! 
How  bare!  It's  just  like  desert." 

"  It  is  desert.  We've  forty  miles  of  that  before  we  come 
to  a  hill  or  a  tree." 

Helen  glanced  out.  A  flat,  dull-green  expanse  waved 
away  from  the  road  on  and  on  to  a  bright,  dark  horizon- 
line,  where  the  sun  was  setting  rayless  in  a  clear  sky. 
Open,  desolate,  and  lonely,  the  scene  gave  her  a  cold 
thrill. 

"Did  your  uncle  Al  ever  write  anythin*  about  a  man 
named  Beasley?"  asked  Dale. 

"Indeed  he  did,"  replied  Helen,  with  a  start  of  surprise. 
"Beasley!  That  name  is  familiar  to  us — and  detestable. 
My  uncle  complained  of  this  man  for  years.  Then  he 
grew  bitter — accused  Beasby.  But  the  last  year  or  so 
not  a  word!" 

"Well,  now,"  began  the  hunter,  earnestly,  "let's  get 
the  bad  news  over.  I'm  sorry  you  must  be  worried.  But 
you  must  learn  to  take  the  West  as  it  is.  There's  good 

50 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

an'  bad,  maybe  more  bad.  That's  because  the  country's 
young.  ...  So  to  come  right  out  with  it — this  Beasley  hired 
a  gang  of  outlaws  to  meet  the  stage  you  was  goin'  in  to 
Snowdrop — to-morrow — an'  to  make  off  with  you." 

"Make  off  with  me?"  ejaculated  Helen,  bewildered. 

' 'Kidnap  you!  Which,  in  that  gang,  would  be  worse 
than  killing  you!"  declared  Dale,  grimly,  and  he  closed 
a  huge  fist  on  his  knee. 

Helen  was  utterly  astounded. 

"How  hor-rible ! "  she  gasped  out.  " Make  off  with  me! 
.  .  .  What  in  Heaven's  name  for?" 

Bo  gave  vent  to  a  fierce  little  utterance. 

"For  reasons  you  ought  to  guess,"  replied  Dale,  and  he 
leaned  forward  again.  Neither  his  voice  nor  face  changed 
in  the  least,  but  yet  there  was  a  something  about  him 
that  fascinated  Helen.  "I'm  a  hunter.  I  live  in  the 
woods.  A  few  nights  ago  I  happened  to  be  caught  out 
in  a  storm  an'  I  took  to  an  old  log  cabin.  Soon  as  I  got 
there  I  heard  horses.  I  hid  up  in  the  loft.  Some  men 
rode  up  an'  come  in.  It  was  dark.  They  couldn't  see 
me.  An'  they  talked.  It  turned  out  they  were  Snake 
Anson  an'  his  gang  of  sheep-thieves.  They  expected  to 
meet  Beasley  there.  Pretty  soon  he  came.  He  told 
Anson  how  old  Al,  your  uncle,  was  on  his  last  legs — how 
he  had  sent  for  you  to  have  his  property  when  he  died. 
Beasley  swore  he  had  claims  on  Al.  An'  he  made  a  deal 
with  Anson  to  get  you  out  of  the  way.  He  named  the 
day  you  were  to  reach  Magdalena.  With  Al  dead  an' 
you  not  there,  Beasley  could  get  the  property.  An'  then 
he  wouldn't  care  if  you  did  come  to  claim  it.  It  'd  be  too 
late.  .  .  .  Well,  they  rode  away  that  night.  An'  next  day 
I  rustled  down  to  Pine.  They're  all  my  friends  at  Pine 
except  old  Al.  But  they  think  I'm  queer.  I  didn't  want 
to  confide  in  many  people.  Beasley  is  strong  in  Pine 
an*  for  that  matter  I  suspect  Snake  Anson  has  other 
friends  there  besides  Beasley.  So  I  went  to  see  your 
uncle.  He  never  had  any  use  for  me  because  he  thought 

5i 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

i  was  lazy  like  an  Indian.  Old  Al  hates  lazy  men.  Then 
we  fell  out — or  he  fell  out — because  he  believed  a  tame 
lion  of  mine  had  killed  some  of  his  sheep.  An'  now  I 
reckon  that  Tom  might  have  done  it.  I  tried  to  lead  up 
to  this  deal  of  Beasley's  about  you,  but  old  Al  wouldn't 
listen.  He's  cross — very  cross.  An'  when  I  tried  to  tell 
him,  why,  he  went  right  out  of  his  head.  Sent  me  off  the 
ranch.  Now  I  reckon  you  begin  to  see  what  a  pickle  I 
was  in.  Finally  I  went  to  four  friends  I  could  trust. 
They're  Mormon  boys — brothers.  That's  Joe  out  on  top, 
with  the  driver.  I  told  them  all  about  Beasley's  deal  an' 
asked  them  to  help  me.  So  we  planned  to  beat  Anson 
an'  his  gang  to  Magdalena.  It  happens  that  Beasley  is 
as  strong  in  Magdalena  as  he  is  in  Pine.  An'  we  had  to 
go  careful.  But  the  boys  had  a  couple  of  friends  here — 
Mormons,  too,  who  agreed  to  help  us.  They  had  this  old 
stage.  .  .  .  An'  here  you  are."  Dale  spread  out  his  big 
hands  and  looked  gravely  at  Helen  and  then  at  Bo. 

"You're  perfectly  splendid!"  cried  Bo,  ringingly.  She 
was  white;  her  fingers  were  clenched;  her  eyes  blazed. 

Dale  appeared  startled  out  of  his  gravity,  and  surprised, 
then  pleased.  A  smile  made  his  face  like  a  boy's. 

Helen  felt  her  body  all  rigid,  yet  slightly  trembling. 
Her  hands  were  cold.  The  horror  of  this  revelation  held 
her  speechless.  But  in  her  heart  she  echoed  Bo's  excla- 
mation of  admiration  and  gratitude. 

"So  far,  then,"  resumed  Dale,  with  a  heavy  breath  of 
relief.  "No  wonder  you're  upset.  I've  a  blunt  way  of 
talkin'.  .  .  .  Now  we've  thirty  miles  to  ride  on  this  Snow- 
drop road  before  we  can  turn  off.  To-day  sometime  the 
rest  of  the  boys — Roy,  John,  an'  Hal — were  to  leave  Show 
Down,  which  's  a  town  farther  on  from  Snowdrop.  They 
have  my  horses  an'  packs  besides  their  own.  Somewhere 
on  the  road  we'll  meet  them — to-night,  maybe — or  to- 
morrow. I  hope  not  to-night,  because  that  'd  mean 
Anson's  gang  was  ridin'  in  to  Magdalena." 

Helen  wrung  her  hands  helplessly. 

52 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Oh,  have  I  no  courage?"  she  whispered. 

''Nell,  I'm  as  scared  as  you  are,"  said  Bo,  consolingly, 
embracing  her  sister. 

"  I  reckon  that's  natural,"  said  Dale,  as  if  excusing  them. 
"But,  scared  or  not,  you  both  brace  up.  It's  a  bad  job. 
But  I've  done  my  best.  An'  you'll  be  safer  with  me  an* 
the  Beeman  boys  than  you'd  be  in  Magdalena,  or  any- 
where else,  except  your  uncle's." 

"Mr.— Mr.  Dale,"  faltered  Helen,  with  her  tears  fall- 
ing, "don't  think  me  a  coward — or — or  ungrateful. 
I'm  neither.  It's  only  I'm  so — so  shocked.  After  all  we 
hoped  and  expected — this — this — is  such  a — a  terrible 
surprise." 

"Never  mind,  Nell  dear.  Let's  take  what  comes," 
murmured  Bo. 

"That's  the  talk,"  said  Dale.  "You  see,  I've  come 
right  out  with  the  worst.  Maybe  we'll  get  through  easy. 
When  we  meet  the  boys  we'll  take  to  the  horses  an'  the 
trails.  Can  you  ride?" 

"Bo  has  been  used  to  horses  all  her  life  and  I  ride  fairly 
well,"  responded  Helen.  The  idea  of  riding  quickened 
her  spirit. 

"Good!  We  may  have  some  hard  ridin'  before  I  get 
you  up  to  Pine.  Hello !  What's  that  ? " 

Above  the  creaking,  rattling,  rolling  roar  of  the  stage 
Helen  heard  a  rapid  beat  of  hoofs.  A  horse  flashed  by, 
galloping  hard. 

Dale  opened  the  door  and  peered  out.  The  stage  rolled 
to  a  halt.  He  stepped  down  and  gazed  ahead. 

"Joe,  who  was  that?"  he  queried. 

"Nary  me.  An'  Bill  didn't  know  him,  either,"  replied 
Joe.  "I  seen  him  'way  back.  He  was  ridin'  some.  An' 
he  slowed  up  goin'  past  us.  Now  he's  runnin'  again." 

Dale  shook  his  head  as  if  he  did  not  like  the  circum- 
stances. 

"  Milt,  he'll  never  get  by  Roy  on  this  road,"  said  Joe. 

"  Maybe  he'll  get  by  before  Roy  strikes  in  on  the  road/1 

53 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"It  ain't  likely." 

Helen  could*  not  restrain  her  fears. 

"Mr.  Dale,  you  think  he  was  a  messenger — going  ahead 
to  post  that — that  Anson  gang?" 

"He  might  be,"  replied  Dale,  simply. 

Then  the  young  man  called  Joe  leaned  out  from  the 
seat  above  and  called:  "Miss  Helen,  don't  you  worry. 
Thet  fellar  is  more  liable  to  stop  lead  than  anythin'  else." 

His  words,  meant  to  be  kind  and  reassuring,  were 
almost  as  sinister  to  Helen  as  the  menace  to  her  own  life. 
Long  had  she  known  how  cheap  life  was  held  in  the  West, 
but  she  had  only  known  it  abstractly,  and  she  had  never 
let  the  fact  remain  before  her  consciousness.  This  cheer- 
ful young  man  spoke  calmly  of  spilling  blood  in  her  be- 
half. The  thought  it  roused  was  tragic — for  bloodshed 
was  insupportable  to  her — and  then  the  thrills  which  fol- 
lowed were  so  new,  strange,  bold,  and  tingling  that  they 
were  revolting.  Helen  grew  conscious  of  unplumbed 
depths,  of  instincts  at  which  she  was  amazed  and  ashamed. 

"Joe,  hand  down  that  basket  of  grub — the  small  one 
with  the  canteen,"  said  Dale,  reaching  out  a  long  arm. 
Presently  he  placed  a  cloth-covered  basket  inside  the 
stage.  "Girls,  eat  all  you  want  an'  then  some." 

"We  have  a  basket  half  full  yet,"  replied  Helen. 

"You'll  need  it  all  before  we  get  to  Pine.  .  .  .  Now,  I'll 
ride  up  on  top  with  the  boys  an'  eat  my  supper.  It  '11 
be  dark,  presently,  an*  we'll  stop  often  to  listen.  But 
don't  be  scared." 

With  that  he  took  his  rifle  and,  closing  the  door,  clam- 
bered up  to  the  driver's  seat.  Then  the  stage  lurched 
again  and  began  to  roll  along. 

Not  the  least  thing  to  wonder  at  of  this  eventful  even- 
ing was  the  way  Bo  reached  for  the  basket  of  food.  Helen 
simply  stared  at  her. 

"Bo,  you  can't  eat!"  she  exclaimed. 

"I  should  smile  I  can,"  replied  that  practical  young 
lady.  "And  you're  going  to  if  I  have  to  stuff  things  in 

54 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

your  mouth.  Where's  your  wits,  Nell?  He  said  we  must 
eat.  That  means  our  strength  is  going  to  have  some 
pretty  severe  trials.  .  .  .  Gee!  it's  all  great — just  like  a 
story!  The  unexpected — why,  he  looks  like  a  prince 
turned  hunter! — long,  dark,  stage  journey — held  up — 
fight — escape — wild  ride  on  horses — woods  and  camps 
and  wild  places — pursued — hidden  in  the  forest — more 
hard  rides — then  safe  at  the  ranch.  And  of  course  he 
falls  madly  in  love  with  me — no,  you,  for  I'll  be  true  to 
my  Las  Vegas  lover — " 

"  Hush,  silly !     Bo,  tell  me,  aren't  you  scared?  " 

"Scared!  I'm  scared  stiff.  But  if  Western  girls  stand 
such  things,  we  can.  No  Western  girl  is  going  to  beat 
me!" 

That  brought  Helen  to  a  realization  of  the  brave  nlace 
she  had  given  herself  in  dreams,  and  she  was  at  once 
ashamed  of  herself  and  wildly  proud  of  this  little  sister. 

"Bo,  thank  Heaven  I  brought  you  with  me!"  exclaimed 
Helen,  fervently.  "Ill  eat  if  it  chokes  me." 

Whereupon  she  found  herself  actually  hungry,  and 
while  she  ate  she  glanced  out  of  the  stage,  first  from  one 
side  and  then  from  the  other.  These  windows  had  no 
glass  and  they  let  the  ccnl  night  air  blow  in.  The  sun 
had  long  since  sunk.  Out  to  the  west,  where  a  bold, 
black  horizon-line  swept  away  endlessly,  the  sky  was 
clear  gold,  shading  to  yellow  and  blue  above.  Stars  were 
out,  pale  and  wan,  but  growing  brighter.  The  earth 
appeared  bare  and  heaving,  like  a  calm  sea.  The  wind 
bore  a  fragrance  new  to  Helen,  acridly  sweet  and  uean, 
and  it  was  so  cold  it  made  her  fingers  numb. 

"I  heard  some  animal  yelp,"  said  Bo.  suddenly,  and  she 
listened  with  head  poised. 

But  Helen  heard  nothing  save  the  steady  clip-clop  of 
hoofs,  the  clink  of  chains,  the  creak  and  rattle  of  the  old 
stage,  and  occasionally  the  low  voices  of  the  men  above. 

When  the  girls  had  satisfied  hunger  and  thirst,  night 
had  settled  down  black.  They  pulled  the  cloaks  up  over 

55 


THE  MAN  OF   THE^FOREST 

them,  and  close  together  leaned  back  in  a  corner  of  the 
seat  and  talked  in  whispers.  Helen  did  not  have  much 
to  say,  but  Bo  was  talkative. 

"This  beats  me!"  she  said  once,  after  an  interval. 
"Where  are  we,  Nell?  Those  men  up  there  are  Mormons. 
Maybe  they  are  abducting  us!" 

"Mr.  Dale  isn't  a  Mormon,"  replied  Helen. 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"I  could  tell  by  the  way  he  spoke  of  his  friends. n 

"  Welf,  I  wish  it  wasn't  so  dark.  I'm  not  afraid  of  men 
in  daylight.  .  .  .  Nell,  did  you  ever  see  such  a  wonderful- 
looking  fellow?  What  'd  they  call  him?  Milt— Milt 
Dale.  He  said  he  lived  in  the  woods.  If  I  hadn't  fallen 
in  love  with  that  cowboy  who  called  me — well,  I'd  be  a 
goner  now." 

After  an  interval  of  silence  Bo  whispered,  startlingly, 
"Wonder  if  Harve  Riggs  is  following  us  now?" 

"Of  course  he  is,"  replied  Helen,  hopelessly. 

"He'd  better  look  out.  Why,  Nell,  he  never  saw — he 
never — what  did  Uncle  Al  used  to  call  it  ? — sav — savvied — 
that's  it.  Riggs  never  savvied  that  hunter.  But  I  did, 
you  bet." 

"  Savvied !    What  do  you  mean,  Bo  ? n 

"I  mean  that  long-haired  galoot  never  saw  his  real 
danger.  But  I  felt  it.  Something  went  light  inside  me. 
Dale  never  took  him  seriously  at  all." 

"Riggs  will  turn  up  at  Uncle  Al's,  sure  as  I'm  born," 
said  Helen. 

"Let  him  turn,"  replied  Bo,  contemptuously.  "Nell, 
don't  you  ever  bother  your  head  again  about  him.  I'll 
bet  they're  all  men  out  here.  And  I  wouldn't  be  in  Harve 
Riggs's  boots  for  a  lot." 

After  that  Bo  talked  of  her  uncle  and  his  fatal  illness, 
and  from  that  she  drifted  back  to  the  loved  ones  at  home, 
now  seemingly  at  the  other  side  of  the  world,  and  then  she 
broke  down  and  cried,  after  which  she  fell  asleep  on  Helen's 
shoulder. 

56 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

But  Helen  could  not  have  fallen  asleep  if  she  had 
wanted  to. 

She  had  always,  since  she  could  remember,  longed  for 
a  moving,  active  life;  and  for  want  of  a  better  idea  she 
had  chosen  to  dream  of  gipsies.  And  now  it  struck  her 
grimly  that,  if  these  first  few  hours  of  her  advent  in  the 
West  were  forecasts  of  the  future,  she  was  destined  to 
have  her  longings  more  than  fulfilled. 

Presently  the  stage  rolled  slower  and  slower,  until  it 
came  to  a  halt.  Then  the  horses  heaved,  the  harnesses 
clinked,  the  men  whispered.  Otherwise  there  was  an 
intense  quiet.  She  looked  out,  expecting  to  find  it  pitch- 
dark.  It  was  black,  yet  a  transparent  blackness.  To 
her  surprise  she  could  see  a  long  way.  A  shooting-star 
electrified  her.  The  men  were  listening.  She  listened, 
too,  but  beyond  the  slight  sounds  about  the  stage  she 
heard  nothing.  Presently  the  driver  clucked  to  his 
horses,  and  travel  was  resumed. 

For  a  while  the  stage  rolled  on  rapidly,  evidently  down- 
hill, swaying  from  side  to  side,  and  rattling  as  if  about  to 
fall  to  pieces.  Then  it  slowed  on  a  level,  and  again  it 
halted  for  a  few  moments,  and  once  more  in  motion  it 
began  a  laborsome  climb.  Helen  imagined  miles  had 
been  covered.  The  desert  appeared  to  heave  into  billows, 
growing  rougher,  and  dark,  round  bushes  dimly  stood  out. 
The  road  grew  uneven  and  rocky,  and  when  the  stage 
began  another  descent  its  violent  rocking  jolted  Bo  out 
of  her  sleep  and  in  fact  almost  out  of  Helen's  arms. 

" Where  am  I?"  asked  Bo,  dazedly. 

"Bo,  you're  having  your  heart's  desire,  but  I  can't  tell 
you  where  you  are,"  replied  Helen. 

Bo  awakened  thoroughly,  which  fact  was  now  no  won- 
der, considering  the  jostling  of  the  old  stage. 

"Hold  on  to  me,  Nell!  ...  Is  it  a  runaway?" 

"We've  come  about  a  thousand  miles  like  this,  I  think," 
replied  Helen.  "  I've  not  a  whole  bone  in  my  body.1' 

Bo  peered  out  of  the  window. 
5  57 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Oh,  how  dark  and  lonesome!  But  it  'd  be  nice  if  it 
wasn't  so  cold.  I'm  freezing." 

41 1  thought  you  loved  cold  air,"  taunted  Helen. 

"Say,  Nell,  you  begin  to  talk  like  yourself,"  responded 
Bo. 

It  was  difficult  to  hold  on  to  the  stage  and  each  other 
and  the  cloak  all  at  once,  but  they  succeeded,  except  in 
the  roughest  places,  when  from  time  to  time  they  were 
bounced  around.  Bo  sustained  a  sharp  rap  on  the  head. 

"Oooooo!"  she  moaned.  "Nell  Rayner,  I'll  never  for- 
give you  for  fetching  me  on  this  awful  trip." 

"Just  think  of  your  handsome  Las  Vegas  cowboy," 
replied  Helen. 

Either  this  remark  subdued  Bo  or  the  suggestion  suf- 
ficed to  reconcile  her  to  the  hardships  of  the  ride. 

Meanwhile,  as  they  talked  and  maintained  silence  and 
tried  to  sleep,  the  driver  of  the  stage  kept  at  his  task  after 
the  manner  of  Western  men  who  knew  how  to  get  the 
best  out  of  horses  and  bad  roads  and  distance. 

By  and  by  the  stage  halted  again  and  remained  at  a 
standstill  for  so  long,  with  the  men  whispering  on  top,  that 
Helen  and  Bo  were  roused  to  apprehension. 

Suddenly  a  sharp  whistle  came  from  the  darkness  ahead. 

"Thet's  Roy,"  said  Joe  Beeman,  in  a  low  voice. 

"I  reckon.  An'  meetin'  us  so  quick  looks  bad,"  replied 
Dale.  "Drive  on,  Bill." 

"Mebbe  it  seems  quick  to  you,"  muttered  the  driver, 
"but  if  we  hain't  come  thirty  mile,  an'  if  thet  ridge 
thar  hain't  your  turnin'-off  place,  why,  I  don't  know 
nothin'." 

The  stage  rolled  on  a  little  farther,  while  Helen  and  Bo 
sat  clasping  each  other  tight,  wondering  with  bated  breath 
what  was  to  be  the  next  thing  to  happen. 

Then  once  more  they  were  at  a  standstill.  Helen  heard 
the  thud  of  boots  striking  the  ground,  and  the  snorts  of 
horses 

"  Nell,  I  see  horses,"  whispered  Bo,  excitedly.  * '  There, 

58 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

to  the  side  of  the  road  .  .  .  and  here  comes  a  man.  .  .  .  Oh, 
if  he  shouldn't  be  the  one  they're  expecting!" 

Helen  peered  out  to  see  a  tall,  dark  form,  moving 
silently,  and  beyond  it  a  vague  outline  of  horses,  and  then 
pale  gleams  of  what  must  have  been  pack-loads. 

Dale  loomed  up,  and  met  the  stranger  in  the  road. 

"Howdy,  Milt?  You  got  the  girl  sure,  or  you  wouldn't 
be  here,"  said  a  low  voice. 

"Roy,  I've  got  two  girls — sisters,"  replied  Dale. 

The  man  Roy  whistled  softly  under  his  breath.  Then 
another  lean,  rangy  form  strode  out  of  the  darkness,  and 
was  met  by  Dale. 

"Now,  boys — how  about  Anson's  gang?"  queried  Dale. 

"At  Snowdrop,  drinkin*  an'  quarrelin'.  Reckon  they'll 
leave  there  about  daybreak,"  replied  Roy. 

"How  long  have  you  been  here?" 

"Mebbe  a  couple  of  hours." 

"Any  horse  go  by?" 

"No." 

"Roy,  a  strange  rider  passed  us  before  dark.  He  was 
hittin'  the  road.  An'  he's  got  by  here  before  you  came." 

"I  don't  like  thet  news,"  replied  Roy,  tersely.  "Let's 
rustle.  With  girls  on  hossback  you'll  need  all  the  start 
you  can  get.  Hey,  John?" 

"Snake  Anson  shore  can  f oiler  hoss  tracks,"  replied  the 
third  man. 

"Milt,  say  the  word,"  went  on  Roy,  as  he  looked  up  at 
the  stars.  "  Daylight  not  far  away.  Here's  the  forks  of 
the  road,  an'  your  hosses,  an'  our  outfit.  You  can  be  in 
the  pines  by  sunup." 

In  the  silence  that  ensued  Helen  heard  the  throb  of  her 
heart  and  the  panting  little  breaths  of  her  sister.  They 
both  peered  out,  hands  clenched  together,  watching  and 
listening  in  strained  attention. 

"It's  possible  that  rider  last  night  wasn't  a  messenger 
to  Anson,"  said  Dale.  "In  that  case  Anson  won't  make 
anythin'  of  our  wheel  tracks  or  horse  tracks.  He'll  go 

59 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

right  on  to  meet  the  regular  stage.  Bill,  can  you  go  back 
an'  meet  the  stage  comin'  before  Anson  does?" 

"Wai,  I  reckon  so — an'  take  it  easy  at  thet,"  replied 
Bill. 

"All  right,"  continued  Dale,  instantly.  "John,  you  an' 
Joe  an'  Hal  ride  back  to  meet  the  regular  stage.  An* 
when  you  meet  it  get  on  an'  be  on  it  when  Anson  holds 
it  up." 

"Thet's  shore  agreeable  to  me,"  drawled  John. 

"I'd  like  to  be  on  it,  too,"  said  Roy,  grimly. 

"No.  I'll  need  you  till  I'm  safe  in  the  woods.  Bill, 
hand  down  the  bags.  An'  you,  Roy,  help  me  pack  them. 
Did  you  get  all  the  supplies  I  wanted?" 

"Shore  did.  If  the  young  ladies  ain't  powerful  par- 
ticular you  can  feed  them  well  for  a  couple  of  months." 

Dale  wheeled  and,  striding  to  the  stage,  he  opened  the 
door. 

"Girls,  you're  not  asleep?    Come,"  he  called. 

Bo  stepped  down  first. 

"I  was  asleep  till  this — this  vehicle  fell  off  the  road 
back  a  ways,"  she  replied. 

Roy  Beeman's  low  laugh  was  significant.  He  took  oft 
his  sombrero  and  stood  silent.  The  old  driver  smothered 
a  loud  guffaw. 

"Veehicle!  Wai,  I'll  be  doggoned!  Joe,  did  you  hear 
thet?  All  the  spunky  gurls  ain't  born  out  West." 

As  Helen  followed  with  cloak  and  bag  Roy  assisted  her, 
and  she  encountered  keen  eyes  upon  her  face.  He  seemed 
both  gentle  and  respectful,  and  she  felt  his  solicitude. 
His  heavy  gun,  swinging  low,  struck  her  as  she  stepped 
down. 

Dale  reached  into  the  stage  and  hauled  out  baskets  and 
bags.  These  he  set  down  on  the  ground. 

"Turn  around,  Bill,  an'  go  along  with  you.  John  an* 
Hal  will  follow  presently,"  ordered  Dale. 

"Wai,  gurls,"  said  Bill,  looking  down  upon  them,  "I 
was  shore  powerful  glad  to  meet  you-all.  An'  I 'm  ashamed 

60 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

of  my  country — offerin'  two  sich  purty  gurls  insults  an' 
low-down  tricks.  But  shore  you'll  go  through  safe  now. 
You  couldn't  be  in  better  company  fer  ridin'  or  huntin'  or 
marry  in'  or  gittin*  religion — " 

"Shut  up,  you  old  grizzly!"  broke  in  Dale,  sharply. 

"Haw!  Haw!  Good-by,  gurls,  an'  good  luck!"  ended 
Bill,  as  he  began  to  whip  the  reins. 

Bo  said  good-by  quite  distinctly,  but  Helen  could  only 
murmur  hers.  The  old  driver  seemed  a  friend. 

Then  the  horses  wheeled  and  stamped,  the  stage  ca- 
reened and  creaked,  presently  to  roll  out  of  sight  in  the 
gloom. 

"You're  shiverm',"  said  Dale,  suddenly,  looking  down 
upon  Helen.  She  felt  his  big,  hard  hand  clasp  hers. 
"Cold  as  ice!" 

"I  am  c-cold,"  replied  Helen.  "I  guess  we're  not 
warmly  dressed." 

"Nell,  we  roasted  all  day,  and  now  we're  freezing," 
declared  Bo.  "I  didn't  know  it  was  winter  at  night  out 
here." 

"Miss,  haven't  you  some  warm  gloves  an'  a  coat?" 
asked  Roy,  anxiously.  "It  'ain't  begun  to  get  cold 
yet." 

"Nell,  we've  heavy  gloves,  riding-suits  and  boots — all 
fine  and  new — in  this  black  bag,"  said  Bo,  enthusiastically 
kicking  a  bag  at  her  feet. 

"Yes,  so  we  have.  But  a  lot  of  good  they'll  do  us,  to- 
night," returned  Helen. 

"Miss,  you'd  do  well  to  change  right  here,"  said  Roy, 
earnestly.  "It  '11  save  time  in  the  long  run  an'  a  lot  of 
sufferin'  before  sunup." 

Helen  stared  at  the  young  man,  absolutely  amazed  with 
his  simplicity.  She  was  advised  to  change  her  traveling- 
dress  for  a  riding-suit — out  somewhere  in  a  cold,  windy 
desert — in  the  middle  of  the  night — among  strange  young 
men! 

"Bo,  which  bag  is  it?"  asked  Dale,  as  if  she  were  his 

61 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

sister.  And  when  she  indicated  the  one,  he  picked  it  up. 
"Come  off  the  road." 

Bo  followed  him,  and  Helen  found  herself  mechanically 
at  their  heels.  Dale  led  them  a  few  paces  off  the  road 
behind  some  low  bushes. 

"Hurry  an'  change  here,"  he  said.  "We'll  make  a 
pack  of  your  outfit  an'  leave  room  for  this  bag." 

Then  he  stalked  away  and  in  a  few  strides  disappeared. 

Bo  sat  down  to  begin  unlacing  her  shoes.  Helen  could 
just  see  her  pale,  pretty  face  and  big,  gleaming  eyes  by 
the  light  of  the  stars.  It  struck  her  then  that  Bo  was 
going  to  make  eminently  more  of  a  success  of  Western  life 
than  she  was. 

"Nell,  those  fellows  are  n-nice,"  said  Bo,  reflectively. 
"Aren't  you  c-cold?  Say,  he  said  hurry!" 

It  was  beyond  Helen's  comprehension  how  she  ever 
began  to  disrobe  out  there  in  that  open,  windy  desert,  but 
after  she  had  gotten  launched  on  the  task  she  found  that 
it  required  more  fortitude  than  courage.  The  cold  wind 
pierced  right  through  her.  Almost  she  could  have  laughed 
at  the  way  Bo  made  things  fly. 

"G-g-g-gee!"  chattered  Bo.  "I  n-never  w-was  so 
c-c-cold  in  all  my  life.  Nell  Rayner,  m-may  the  g-good 
Lord  forgive  y-you!" 

Helen  was  too  intent  on  her  own  troubles  to  take 
breath  to  talk.  She  was  a  strong,  healthy  girl,  swift 
and  efficient  with  her  hands,  yet  this,  the  hardest 
physical  ordeal  she  had  ever  experienced,  almost  over- 
came her.  Bo  outdistanced  her  by  moments,  helped 
her  with  buttons,  and  laced  one  whole  boot  for  her. 
Then,  with  hands  that  stung,  Helen  packed  the  traveling- 
suits  in  the  bag. 

"There!  But  what  an  awful  mess!"  exclaimed  Helen. 
"Oh,  Bo,  our  pretty  traveling-dresses!" 

"We'll  press  them  t-to-morrow — on  a  1-log,"  replied 
Bo,  and  she  giggled. 

Thev  started  for  the  road.  Bo,  strange  to  note,  did 

62 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

not  carry  her  share  of  the  burden,  and  she  seemed  unsteady 
on  her  feet. 

The  men  were  waiting  beside  a  group  of  horses,  one  of 
which  carried  a  pack. 

"Nothin*  slow  about  you,"  said  Dale,  relieving  Helen 
of  the  grip.  "  Roy,  put  them  up  while  I  sling  on  this  bag." 

Roy  led  out  two  of  the  horses. 

"Get  up,"  he  said,  indicating  Bo.  "The  stirrups  are 
short  on  this  saddle." 

Bo  was  an  adept  at  mounting,  but  she  made  such  awk- 
ward and  slow  work  of  it  in  this  instance  that  Helen  could 
not  believe  her  eyes. 

"How  're  the  stirrups?"  asked  Roy.  "Stand  in  them. 
Guess  they're  about  right.  .  .  .  Careful  now!  Thet  hoss 
is  skittish.  Hold  him  in." 

Bo  was  not  living  up  to  the  reputation  with  which  Helen 
had  credited  her. 

"Now,  miss,  you  get  up,"  said  Roy  to  Helen.  And  in 
another  instant  she  found  herself  astride  a  black,  spirited 
horse.  Numb  with  cold  as  she  was,  she  yet  felt  the  cours- 
ing thrills  along  her  veins. 

Roy  was  at  the  stirrups  with  swift  hands. 

"You're  taller 'n  I  guessed,"  he  said.  "Stay  up,  but 
lift  your  foot.  .  .  .  Shore  now,  I'm  glad  you  have  them 
thick,  soft  boots.  Mebbe  we'll  ride  all  over  the  White 
Mountains." 

"Bo,  do  you  hear  that?"  called  Helen. 

But  Bo  did  not  answer.  She  was  leaning  rather  un- 
naturally in  her  saddle.  Helen  became  anxious.  Just 
then  Dale  strode  back  to  them. 

"All  cinched  up,  Roy?" 

"Jest  ready,"  replied  Roy. 

Then  Dale  stood  beside  Helen.  How  tall  he  was!  His 
wide  shoulders  seemed  on  a  level  with  the  pommel  of  her 
saddle.  He  put  an  affectionate  hand  on  the  horse. 

"His  name's  Ranger  an'  he's  the  fastest  an'  finest  horse 
in  this  country." 

63 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"  I  reckon  he  shore  is — along  with  my  bay,"  corroborated 
Roy. 

"Roy,  if  you  rode  Ranger  he'd  beat  your  pet,"  said 
Dale.  "We  can  start  now.  Roy,  you  drive  the  pack- 
horses." 

He  took  another  look  at  Helen's  saddle  and  then  moved 
to  do  likewise  with  Bo's. 

"Are  you — all  right'"'  he  asked,  quickly. 

Bo  reeled  in  her  seat. 

"I'm  n-near  froze,"  she  replied,  in  a  faint  voice.  Her 
face  shone  white  in  the  starlight.  Helen  recognized  that 
Bo  was  more  than  cold. 

"Oh,  Bo!"  she  called,  in  distress. 

"Nell,  don't  you  worry,  now." 

"Let  me  carry  you,"  suggested  Dale. 

"No.  I'll  s-s-stick  on  this  horse  or  d-die,"  fiercely  re- 
torted Bo. 

The  two  men  looked  up  at  her  white  face  and  then  at 
each  other.  Then  Roy  walked  away  toward  the  dark 
bunch  of  horses  off  the  road  and  Dale  swung  astride  the 
one  horse  left. 

"Keep  close  to  me,"  he  said. 

Bo  fell  in  line  and  Helen  brought  up  the  rear. 

Helen  imagined  she  was  near  the  end  of  a  dream. 
Presently  she  would  awaken  with  a  start  and  see  the  pale 
walls  of  her  little  room  at  home,  and  hear  the  cherry 
branches  brushing  her  window,  and  the  old  clarion-voiced 
cock  proclaim  the  hour  of  dawn. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  horses  trotted.  And  the  exercise  soon  warmed 
Helen,  until  she  was  fairly  comfortable  except  in  her 
fingers.  In  mind,  however,  she  grew  more  miserable  as 
she  more  fully  realized  her  situation.  The  night  now 
became  so  dark  that,  although  the  head  of  her  horse  was 
alongside  the  flank  of  Bo's,  she  could  scarcely  see  Bo. 
From  time  to  time  Helen's  anxious  query  brought  from 
her  sister  the  answer  that  she  was  all  right. 

Helen  had  not  ridden  a  horse  for  more  than  a  year,  and 
/or  several  years  she  had  not  ridden  with  any  regularity. 
Despite  her  thrills  upon  mounting,  she  had  entertained 
misgivings.  But  she  was  agreeably  surprised,  for  the 
horse,  Ranger,  had  an  easy  gait,  and  she  found  she  had 
not  forgotten  how  to  ride.  Bo,  having  been  used  to  riding 
on  a  farm  near  home,  might  be  expected  to  acquit  herself 
admirably.  It  occurred  to  Helen  what  a  plight  they 
would  have  been  in  but  for  the  thick,  comfortable  riding 
outfits. 

Dark  as  the  night  was,  Helen  could  dimly  make  out 
the  road  underneath.  It  was  rocky,  and  apparently  little 
used.  When  Dale  turned  off  the  road  into  the  low  brush 
or  sage  of  what  seemed  a  level  plain,  the  traveling  was 
harder,  rougher,  and  yet  no  slower.  The  borses  kept  to 
the  gait  of  the  leaders.  Helen,  discovering  it  unneces- 
sary, ceased  attempting  to  guide  Ranger.  There  were 
dim  shapes  in  trm  gloom  ahead,  and  always  they  gave 
Helen  uneasiness,  until  closer  approach  proved  them  to 
be  rocks  or  low.  scrubby  trees.  These  increased  in  both 
size  and  number  as  the  horses  progressed.  Often  Helen 

65 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

looked  back  into  the  gloom  behind.  This  act  was  invol- 
untary and  occasioned  her  sensations  of  dread.  Dale 
expected  to  be  pursued.  And  Helen  experienced,  along 
with  the  dread,  flashes  of  unfamiliar  resentment.  Not 
only  was  there  an  attempt  afoot  to  rob  her  of  her  heritage, 
but  even  her  personal  liberty.  Then  she  shuddered  at 
the  significance  of  Dale's  words  regarding  her  possible 
abduction  by  this  hired  gang.  It  seemed  monstrous,  im- 
possible. Yet,  manifestly  it  was  true  enough  to  Dale 
and  his  allies.  The  West,  then,  in  reality  was  raw,  hard, 
inevitable. 

Suddenly  her  horse  stopped.  He  had  come  up  along- 
side Bo's  horse.  Dale  had  halted  ahead,  and  apparently 
was  listening.  Roy  and  the  pack-train  were  out  of  sight 
in  the  gloom. 

"What  is  it?"  whispered  Helen. 

"Reckon  I  heard  a  wolf,"  replied  Dale. 

"Was  that  cry  a  wolf's?"  asked  Bo.  "I  heard.  It 
was  wild." 

"We're  gettin'  up  close  to  the  foot-hills,"  said  Dale. 
"Feel  how  much  colder  the  air  is." 

"I'm  warm  now,"  replied  Bo.  "I  guess  being  near 
froze  was  what  ailed  me.  .  .  .  Nell,  how  're  you?" 

"I'm  warm,  too,  but — "  Helen  answered. 

"If  you  had  your  choice  of  being  here  or  back  home, 
snug  in  bed — which  would  you  take?"  asked  Bo. 

"Bo!"  exclaimed  Helen,  aghast. 

"Well,  I'd  choose  to  be  right  here  on  this  horse, "re- 
joined Bo. 

Dale  heard  her,  for  he  turned  an  instant,  then  slapped 
his  horse  and  started  on. 

Helen  n  )w  rode  beside  Bo,  and  for  a  long  time  they 
climbed  steadily  in  silence.  Helen  knew  when  that  dark 
hour  before  dawn  had  passed,  and  she  welcomed  an  almost 
imperceptiole  lightening  in  the  east.  Then  the  stars 
paled.  Gradually  a  grayness  absorbed  all  but  the  larger 
stars.  The  great  white  morning  star,  wonderful  as  Helen 

66 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

had  never  seen  it,  lost  its  brilliance  and  life  and  seemed  to 
retreat  into  the  dimming  blue. 

Daylight  came  gradually,  so  that  the  gray  desert  be- 
came distinguishable  by  degrees.  Rolling  bare  hills,  half 
obscured  by  the  gray  lifting  mantle  of  night,  rose  in  the 
foreground,  and  behind  was  gray  space,  slowly  taking 
form  and  substance.  In  the  east  there  was  a  kindling  of 
pale  rose  and  silver  that  lengthened  and  brightened  along 
a  horizon  growing  visibly  rugged. 

"Reckon  we'd  better  catch  up  with  Roy,"  said  Dale, 
and  he  spurred  his  horse. 

Ranger  and  Bo's  mount  needed  no  other  urging,  and 
they  swung  into  a  canter.  Far  ahead  the  pack-animals 
showed  with  Roy  driving  them.  The  cold  wind  was  so 
keen  in  Helen's  face  that  tears  blurred  her  eyes  and  froze 
her  cheeks.  And  riding  Ranger  at  that  pace  was  like 
riding  in  a  rocking-chair.  That  ride,  invigorating  and 
exciting,  seemed  all  too  short. 

"Oh,  Nell,  I  don't  care — what  becomes  of — me!"  ex- 
claimed Bo,  breathlessly. 

Her  face  was  white  and  red,  fresh  as  a  rose,  her  eyes 
glanced  darkly  blue,  her  hair  blew  out  in  bright,  unruly 
strands.  Helen  knew  she  felt  some  of  the  physical  stim- 
ulation that  had  so  roused  Bo,  and  seemed  so  irresistible, 
but  somber  thought  was  not  deflected  thereby. 

It  was  clear  daylight  when  Roy  led  off  round  a  knoll 
from  which  patches  ot  scrubby  trees — cedars,  Dale  called 
them — straggled  up  on  the  side  of  the  foot-hills. 

"  They  grow  on  the  north  slopes,  where  the  snow  stayc 
longest,"  said  Dale. 

They  descended  into  a  valley  that  looked  shallow,  but 
proved  to  be  deep  and  wide,  and  then  began  to  climb 
another  foot-hill.  Upon  surmounting  it  Helen  saw  the 
rising  sun,  and  so  glorious  a  view  confronted  her  that  she 
was  unable  to  answer  Bo's  wild  exclamations. 

Bare,  yellow,  cedar-dotted  slopes,  apparently  level,  so 
gradual  was  the  ascent,  stretched  away  to  a  dense  ragged 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

line  of  forest  that  rose  black  over  range  after  range,  at 
last  to  fail  near  the  bare  summit  of  a  magnificent  moun- 
tain, sunrise-flushed  against  the  blue  sky. 

"Oh,  beautiful!"  cried  Bo.  "But  they  ought  to  be 
called  Black  Mountains." 

"Old  Baldy,  there,  is  white  half  the  year,"  replied  Dale. 

"Look  back  an'  see  what  you  say,"  suggested  Roy. 

The  girls  turned  to  gaze  silently.  Helen  imagined  she 
looked  down  upon  the  whole  wide  world.  How  vastly 
different  was  the  desert!  Verily  it  yawned  away  from 
her,  red  and  gold  near  at  hand,  growing  softly  flushed 
with  purple  far  away,  a  barren  void,  borderless  and  im- 
mense, where  dark-green  patches  and  black  lines  and 
upheaved  ridges  only  served  to  emphasize  distance  and 
space. 

"  See  thet  little  green  spot,"  said  Roy,  pointing.  " Thet's 
Snowdrop.  An'  the  other  one — 'way  to  the  right — thetH 
Show  Down." 

"Where  is  Pine?"  queried  Helen,  eagerly. 

"  Farther  still,  up  over  the  foot-hills  at  the  edge  of  the 
woods." 

"Then  we're  riding  away  from  it." 

"Yes.  If  we  'd  gone  straight  for  Pine  thet  gang  could 
overtake  us.  Pine  Is  four  days'  ride.  An'  by  takin'  to 
the  mountains  Milt  can  hide  his  tracks.  An'  when  he's 
thrown  Anson  off  the  scent,  then  he'll  circle  down  to 
Pine." 

"Mr.  Dale,  do  you  think  you'll  get  us  there  safely — 
and  soon?"  asked  Helen,  wistfully. 

"  I  won't  promise  soon,  but  I  promise  safe.  An'  I  don't 
like  bein'  called  Mister,"  he  replied. 

"Are  we  ever  going  to  eat?"  inquired  Bo,  demurely. 

At  this  query  Roy  Beeman  turned  with  a  laugh  to  look 
at  Bo.  Helen  saw  his  face  fully  in  the  light,  and  it  was 
thin  and  hard,  darkly  bronzed,  with  eyes  like  those  of  a 
hawk,  and  with  square  chin  and  lean  jaws  showing  scant, 
light  beard. 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"We  shore  are,"  he  replied.  "Soon  as  we  reach  the 
timber.  Thet  won't  be  long." 

"Reckon  we  can  rustle  some  an'  then  take  a  good  rest," 
said  Dale,  and  he  urged  his  horse  into  a  jog-trot. 

During  a  steady  trot  for  a  long  hour,  Helen's  roving 
eyes  were  everywhere,  taking  note  of  the  things  from 
near  to  far — the  scant  sage  that  soon  gave  place  to  as 
scanty  a  grass,  and  the  dark  blots  that  proved  to  be  dwarf 
cedars,  and  the  ravines  opening  out  as  if  by  magic  from 
what  had  appeared  level  ground,  to  wind  away  widening 
between  gray  stone  walls,  and  farther  on,  patches  of 
lonely  pine-trees,  two  and  three  together,  and  then  a 
straggling  clump  of  yellow  aspens,  and  up  beyond  the 
fringed  border  of  forest,  growing  nearer  all  the  while, 
the  black  sweeping  benches  rising  to  the  noble  dome  of 
the  dominant  mountain  of  the  range. 

No  birds  or  animals  were  seen  in  that  long  ride  up 
toward  the  timber,  which  fact  seemed  strange  to  Helen. 
The  air  lost  something  of  its  cold,  cutting  edge  as  the  sun 
rose  higher,  and  it  gained  sweeter  tang  of  forest-land.  The 
first  faint  suggestion  of  that  fragrance  was  utterly  new  to 
Helen,  yet  it  brought  a  vague  sensation  of  familiarity  and 
with  it  an  emotion  as  strange.  It  was  as  if  she  had 
smelled  that  keen,  pungent  tang  long  ago,  and  her  physi- 
cal sense  caught  it  before  her  memory. 

The  yellow  plain  had  only  appeared  to  be  level.  Roy 
led  down  into  a  shallow  ravine,  where  a  tiny  stream 
meandered,  and  he  followed  this  around  to  the  left,  com- 
ing at  length  to  a  point  where  cedars  and  dwarf  pines 
formed  a  little  grove.  Here,  as  the  others  rode  up,  he  sat 
cross-legged  in  his  saddle,  and  waited. 

' '  Well  hang  up  awhile, ' '  he  said.   ' '  Reckon  you're  tired  ?" 

"I'm  hungry,  but  not  tired  yet,"  replied  Bo 

Helen  dismounted,  to  find  that  walking  was  something 
she  had  apparently  lost  the  power  to  do.  Bo  laughed  at 
her,  but  she,  too,  was  awkward  when  once  more  upon 
the  ground. 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Then  Roy  got  down.  Helen  was  surprised  to  find  him 
lame.  He  caught  her  quick  glance. 

"A  hoss  threw  me  once  an'  rolled  on  me.  Only  broke 
my  collar-bone,  five  ribs,  one  arm,  an'  my  bow-legs  in 
two  places!" 

Notwithstanding  this  evidence  that  he  was  a  cripple, 
as  he  stood  there  tall  and  lithe  in  his  homespun,  ragged 
garments,  he  looked  singularly  powerful  and  capable. 

"Reckon  walkin'  around  would  be  good  for  you  girls," 
advised  Dale.  "If  you  ain't  stiff  yet,  you'll  be  soon. 
An'  walkin'  will  help.  Don't  go  far.  I'll  call  when 
breakfast's  ready." 

A  little  while  later  the  girls  were  whistled  in  from  their 
walk  and  found  camp-fire  and  meal  awaiting  them.  Roy 
was  sitting  cross-legged,  like  an  Indian,  in  front  of  a  tar- 
paulin, upon  which  was  spread  a  homely  but  substantial 
fare.  Helen's  quick  eye  detected  a  cleanliness  and  thor- 
oughness she  had  scarcely  expected  to  find  in  the  camp- 
cooking  of  men  of  the  wilds.  Moreover,  the  fare  was 
good.  She  ate  heartily,  and  as  for  Bo's  appetite,  she  was 
inclined  to  be  as  much  ashamed  of  that  as  amused  at  it. 
The  young  men  were  all  eyes,  assiduous  in  their  service 
to  the  girls,  but  speaking  seldom.  It  was  not  lost  upon 
Helen  how  Dale's  gray  gaze  went  often  down  across  the 
open  country.  She  divined  apprehension  from  it  rather 
than  saw  much  expression  in  it. 

"I — declare,"  burst  out  Bo,  when  she  could  not  eat  any 
more,  "this  isn't  believable.  I'm  dreaming.  .  .  .  Nell,  the 
black  horse  you  rode  is  the  prettiest  I  ever  saw." 

Ranger,  with  the  other  animals,  was  grazing  along  the 
little  brook.  Packs  and  saddles  had  been  removed.  The 
men  ate  leisurely.  There  was  little  evidence  of  hurried 
flight.  Yet  Helen  could  not  cast  off  uneasiness.  Roy 
might  have  been  deep,  and  careless,  with  a  motive  to  spare 
the  girls'  anxiety,  but  Dale  seemed  incapable  of  anything 
he  did  not  absolutely  mean. 

90 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Rest  or  walk,"  he  advised  the  girls.  "We've  got 
forty  miles  to  ride  before  dark." 

Helen  preferred  to  rest,  but  Bo  walked  about,  petting 
the  horses  and  prying  into  the  packs.  She  was  curious 
and  eager. 

Dale  and  Roy  talked  in  low  tones  while  they  cleaned  up 
the  utensils  and  packed  them  away  in  a  heavy  canvas  bag. 

"You  really  expect  Anson  '11  strike  my  trail  this  morn- 
in'?"  Dale  was  asking. 

"I  shore  do,"  replied  Roy. 

"An'  how  do  you  figure  that  so  soon?" 

"How'd  you  figure  it — if  you  was  Snake  Anson?" 
queried  Roy,  in  reply. 

"Depends  on  that  rider  from  Magdalena,"  said  Dale, 
soberly.  "Although  it's  likely  I'd  seen  them  wheel  track? 
an'  hoss  tracks  made  where  we  turned  off.  But  supposin' 
he  does." 

"Milt,  listen.  I  told  you  Snake  met  us  boys  face  to 
face  day  before  yesterday  in  Show  Down.  An'  he  was 
plumb  curious." 

"But  he  missed  seein*  or  hearin*  about  me,"  replied 
Dale. 

"Mebbe  he  did  an'  mebbe  he  didn't.  Anyway,  what's 
the  difference  whether  he  finds  out  this  mornin'  or  this 
evenin'?" 

"Then  you  ain't  expectin'  a  fight  if  Anson  holds  up  the 
stage?" 

"Wai,  he'd  have  to  shoot  first,  which  ain't  likely. 
John  an'  Hal,  since  thet  shootin'-scrape  a  year  ago,  have 
been  sort  of  gun-shy.  Joe  might  get  riled.  But  I  reckon 
the  best  we  can  be  shore  of  is  a  delay.  An'  it  'd  be  sense 
not  to  count  on  thet." 

"Then  you  hang  up  here  an'  keet>  watch  for  Anson's 
gang — say  long  enough  so  's  to  be  sure  they'd  be  in  sight 
if  they  find  our  tracks  this  mornin'.  Makin'  sure  one  way 
or  another,  you  ride  'cross-country  to  Big  Spring,  where 
I'll  camp  to-night." 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Roy  nodded  approval  of  that  suggestion.  Then  with- 
out more  words  both  men  picked  up  ropes  and  went  after 
the  horses.  Helen  was  watching  Dale,  so  that  when  Bo 
cried  out  in  great  excitement  Helen  turned  to  see  a  savage 
yellow  little  mustang  standing  straight  up  on  his  hind 
legs  and  pawing  the  air.  Roy  had  roped  him  and  was 
now  dragging  him  into  camp. 

"Nell,  look  at  that  for  a  wild  pony!"  exclaimed  Bo. 

Helen  busied  herself  getting  well  out  of  the  way  of  the 
infuriated  mustang.  Roy  dragged  him  to  a  cedar  near  by. 

"Come  now,  Buckskin,"  said  Roy,  soothingly,  and  he 
slowly  approached  the  quivering  animal.  He  went  closer, 
hand  over  hand,  on  the  lasso.  Buckskin  showed  the  whites 
of  his  eyes  and  also  his  white  teeth.  But  he  stood  while 
Roy  loosened  the  loop  and,  slipping  it  down  over  his  head, 
fastened  it  in  a  complicated  knot  round  his  nose. 

"Thet's  a  hackamore,"  he  said,  indicating  the  knot. 
"He's  never  had  a  bridle,  an'  never  will  have  one,  I 
reckon." 

"You  don't  ride  him?"  queried  Helen. 

"Sometimes  I  do,"  replied  Roy,  with  a  smile.  "Would 
you  girls  like  to  try  him?" 

"Excuse  me,"  answered  Helen. 

"Gee!"  ejaculated  Bo.  "He  looks  like  a  devil.  But 
I'd  tackle  him — if  you  think  I  could." 

The  wild  leaven  of  the  West  had  found  quick  root  in 
Bo  Rayner. 

"Wai,  I'm  sorry,  but  I  reckon  I'll  not  let  you — for  a 
spell,"  replied  Roy,  dryly.  "He  pitches  somethin'  power- 
ful bad." 

' '  Pitches .    You  mean  bucks  ? ' ' 

"I  reckon." 

In  the  next  half-hour  Helen  saw  more  and  learned  more 
about  how  horses  of  the  open  range  were  handled  than 
she  had  ever  heard  of.  Excepting  Ranger,  and  Roy's 
bay,  and  the  white  pony  Bo  rode,  the  rest  of  the  horses 
had  actually  to  be  roped  and  hauled  into  camp  to  be 

72 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

saddled  and  packed.  It  was  a  job  for  fearless,  strong 
men,  and  one  that  called  for  patience  as  well  as  arms  of 
iron.  So  that  for  Helen  Rayner  the  thing  succeeding  the 
confidence  she  had  placed  in  these  men  was  respect.  To 
an  observing  woman  that  half-hour  told  much. 

When  all  was  in  readiness  foi  a  start  Dale  mounted, 
and  said,  significantly:  "Roy,  I'll  look  for  you  about 
sundown.  I  hope  no  sooner." 

"Wai,  it  'd  be  bad  if  I  had  to  rustle  along  soon  with 
bad  news.  Let's  hope  for  the  best.  We've  been  shore 
lucky  so  far.  Now  you  take  to  the  pine-mats  in  the 
woods  an'  hide  your  trail.'* 

Dale  turned  away.  Then  +he  girls  bade  Roy  good-by, 
and  followed.  Soon  Roy  and  his  buckskin-colored  mus- 
tang were  lost  to  sight  round  a  clump  of  trees. 

The  unhampered  horses  led  the  way;  the  pack-animals 
trotted  after  them;  the  riders  were  close  behind.  All 
traveled  at  a  jog-trot.  And  this  gait  made  the  packs  bob 
up  and  down  and  from  side  to  side.  The  sun  felt  warm 
at  Helen's  back  and  the  wind  lost  its  frosty  coldness,  that 
almost  appeared  damp,  for  a  dry,  sweet  fragrance.  Dale 
drove  up  the  shallow  valley  that  showed  timber  on  the 
levels  above  and  a  black  border  of  timber  some  few  miles 
ahead.  It  did  not  take  long  to  reach  the  edge  of  the 
forest. 

Helen  wondered  why  the  big  pines  grew  so  far  on  that 
plain  and  no  farther.  Probably  the  growth  had  to  do 
with  snow,  but,  as  the  ground  was  level,  she  could  not  see 
why  the  edge  of  the  woods  should  come  just  there. 

They  rode  into  the  forest. 

To  Helen  it  seemed  a  strange,  critical  entrance  into 
another  world,  which  she  was  destined  to  know  and  to 
love.  The  pines  were  big,  brown-barked,  seamed,  and 
knotted,  with  no  typical  conformation  except  a  majesty 
and  beauty.  They  grew  far  apart.  Few  small  pines  and 
little  underbrush  flourished  beneath  them.  The  floor  of 
this  forest  appeared  remarkable  in  that  it  consisted  of 

6  73 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

patches  of  high  silvery  grass  and  wide  brown  areas  of 
pine-needles.  These  manifestly  were  what  Roy  had 
meant  by  pine-mats.  Here  and  there  a  fallen  monarch 
lay  rivsn  or  rotting.  Helen  was  presently  struck  with 
the  silence  of  the  forest  and  the  strange  fact  that  the 
horses  seldom  made  any  sound  at  all,  and  when  they  did 
it  was  a  cracking  of  dead  twig  or  thud  of  hoof  on  log. 
Likewise  she  became  aware  of  a  springy  nature  of  the 
ground.  And  then  she  saw  that  the  pine-mats  gave  like 
rubber  cushions  under  the  hoofs  of  the  horses,  and  after 
they  had  passed  sprang  back  to  place  again,  leaving  no 
track.  Helen  could  not  see  a  sign  of  a  trail  they  left 
behind.  Indeed,  it  would  take  a  sharp  eye  to  follow 
Dale  through  that  forest.  This  knowledge  was  infinitely 
comforting  to  Helen,  and  tor  the  first  time  since  the 
flight  had  begun  she  felt  a  lessening  of  the  weight  upon 
mind  and  heart.  It  left  her  free  for  some  of  the  appre- 
ciation she  might  have  had  in  this  wonderful  ride  under 
happier  circumstances. 

Bo,  however,  seemed  too  young,  too  wild,  too  intense 
to  mind  what  the  circumstances  were.  She  responded  to 
reality.  Helen  began  to  suspect  that  the  girl  would  wel- 
come any  adventure,  and  Helen  knew  surely  now  that  Bo 
was  a  true  Auchincloss.  For  three  long  days  Helen  had 
felt  a  constraint  with  which  heretofore  she  had  been  un- 
familiar; for  the  last  hours  it  had  been  submerged  under 
dread.  But  it  must  be,  she  conc'uded,  blood  like  her  sis- 
ter's, pounding  at  her  veins  to  be  set  free  to  race  and  to 
burn. 

Bo  loved  action.  She  had  an  eye  for  beauty,  but  she 
was  not  contemplative.  She  was  now  helping  Dale  drive 
the  horses  and  hold  them  in  rather  close  formation.  She 
rode  well,  and  as  yet  showed  no  symptoms  of  fatigue  or 
pain.  Helen  began  to  be  aware  of  both,  but  not  enough 
yet  to  limit  her  interest. 

A  wonderful  forest  without  birds  did  not  seem  real  to 
her.  Of  all  living  creatures  in  nature  Helen  liked  birds 

74 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

best,  and  she  knew  many  and  could  imitate  the  songs  of 
a  few.  But  here  under  the  stately  pines  there  were  no 
birds.  Squirrels,  however,  began  to  be  seen  here  and 
there,  and  in  the  course  of  an  hour's  travel  became  abun- 
dant. The  only  one  with  which  she  was  familiar  was  the 
chipmunk.  All  the  others,  from  the  slim  bright  blacks  to 
the  striped  russets  and  the  white-tailed  grays,  were  totally 
new  to  her.  They  appeared  tame  and  curious.  The  reds 
barked  and  scolded  at  the  passing  cavalcade;  the  blacks 
glided  to  some  safe  branch,  there  to  watch;  the  grays 
paid  no  especial  heed  to  this  invasion  of  their  domain. 

Once  Dale,  halting  his  horse,  pointed  with  long  arm, 
and  Helen,  following  the  direction,  descried  several  gray 
deer  standing  in  a  glade,  motionless,  with  long  ears  up. 
They  made  a  wild  and  beautiful  picture.  Suddenly  they 
bounded  away  with  remarkable  springy  strides. 

The  forest  on  the  whole  held  to  the  level,  open  character, 
but  there  were  swales  and  stream-beds  breaking  up  its 
regular  conformity.  Toward  noon,  however,  it  gradually 
changed,  a  fact  that  Helen  believed  she  might  have  ob- 
served sooner  had  she  been  more  keen.  The  general  lay 
of  the  land  began  to  ascend,  and  the  trees  to  grow  denser. 

She  made  another  discovery.  Ever  since  she  had 
entered  the  forest  she  had  been  aware  of  a  fullness  in  her 
head  and  a  something  affecting  her  nostrils.  She  imag- 
ined, with  regret,  that  she  had  taken  cold.  But  presently 
her  head  cleared  somewhat  and  she  realized  that  the  thick 
pine  odor  of  the  forest  had  clogged  her  nostrils  as  if  with 
a  sweet  pitch.  The  smell  was  overpowering  and  dis- 
agreeable because  of  its  strength.  Also  her  throat  and 
lungs  seemed  to  burn. 

When  she  began  to  lose  interest  in  the  forest  and  her 
surroundings  it  was  because  of  aches  and  pains  which 
would  no  longer  be  denied  recognition.  Thereafter  she 
was  not  permitted  to  forget  them  and  they  grew  worse. 
One,  especially,  was  a  pain  beyond  all  her  experience.  It 
lay  in  the  muscles  of  her  side,  above  her  hip,  and  it  grew 

75 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

to  be  a  treacherous  thing,  for  it  was  not  persistent.  It 
came  and  went.  After  it  did  come,  with  a  terrible  flash, 
it  could  be  borne  by  shifting  or  easing  the  body.  But  it 
gave  no  warning.  When  she  expected  it  she  was  mis- 
taken ;  when  she  dared  to  breathe  again,  then,  with  pierc- 
nig  swiftness,  it  returned  like  a  blade  in  her  side.  This, 
then,  was  one  of  the  riding-pains  that  made  a  v'ctim  of  a 
tenderfoot  on  a  long  ride.  It  was  almost  too  much  to  be 
borne.  The  beauty  of  the  forest,  the  living  creatures  to 
be  seen  scurrying  away,  the  time,  distance — everything 
faded  before  that  stablike  pain.  To  her  infinite  relief 
she  found  that  it  was  the  trot  that  caused  this  torture. 
When  Ranger  walked  she  did  not  have  to  suffer  it.  There- 
fore she  held  him  to  a  walk  as  long  as  she  dared  or  until 
Dale  and  Bo  were  almost  out  of  sight;  then  she  loped  him 
ahead  until  he  had  caught  up. 

So  the  hours  passed,  the  sun  got  around  low,  sending 
golden  shafts  under  the  trees,  and  the  forest  gradually 
changed  to  a  brighter,  but  a  thicker,  color.  This  slowly 
darkened.  Sunset  was  not  far  away. 

She  heard  the  horses  splashing  in  water,  and  soon  she 
rode  up  to  see  the  tiny  streams  of  crystal  water  running 
swiftly  over  beds  of  green  moss.  She  crossed  a  number 
of  these  and  followed  along  the  last  one  into  a  more  open 
place  in  the  forest  where  the  pines  were  huge,  towering, 
and  far  apart.  A  low,  gray  bluff  of  stone  rose  to  the  right, 
perhaps  one-third  as  high  as  the  trees.  From  somewhere 
came  the  rushing  sound  of  running  water. 

"  Big  Spring, ' '  announced  Dale.  ' '  We  camp  here.  Xou 
girls  have  done  well." 

Another  glance  proved  to  Helen  that  all  those  little 
streams  poured  from  under  this  gray  bluff. 

"I'm  dying  for  a  drink,"  cried  Bo,  with  her  customary 
hyperbole. 

"I  reckon  you'll  never  forget  your  first  drink  here." 
£«u2arkeci  Dale. 

So  *sa.a?«<i  to  dismount,  and  finally  fell  off,  arid  when 

76 


OF  THE  FOREST 

«he  did  get  to  the  ground  her  legs  appeared  to  refuse  their 
natural  function,  and  she  fell  flat.  Dale  helped  her  up. 

"What's  wrong  with  me,  anyhow?"  she  demanded,  in 
great  amaze. 

"Just  stiff,  I  reckon/'  replied  Dale,  as  he  led  her  a  few 
awkward  steps. 

"Bo,  have  you  any  hurts?"  queried  Helen,  who  still  sat 
her  horse,  loath  to  try  dismounting,  yet  wanting  to  beyond 
all  words. 

Bo  gave  her  an  eloquent  glance. 

"  Nell,  did  you  have  one  in  your  side,  like  a  wicked,  long 
darning-needle,  punching  deep  when  you  weren't  ready?" 

"That  one  I'll  never  get  over!"  exclaimed  Helen,  softly. 
Vhen,  profiting  by  Bo's  experience,  she  dismounted  cau- 
tiously, and  managed  to  keep  upright.  Her  legs  felt  like 
wooden  things. 

Presently  the  girls  went  toward  the  spring. 

"Drink  slow,"  called  out  Dale. 

Big  Spring  had  its  source  somewhere  deep  under  the 
gray,  weathered  bluff,  from  which  came  a  hollow  subter- 
ranean gurgle  and  roar  of  water.  Its  fountainhead  must 
have  been  a  great  well  rushing  up  through  the  cold  stone. 

Helen  and  Bo  lay  flat  on  a  mossy  bank,  seeing  their 
faces  as  they  bent  over,  and  they  sipped  a  mouthful,  by 
Dale's  advice,  and  because  they  were  so  hot  and  parched 
and  burning  they  wanted  to  tarry  a  moment  with  a 
precious  opportunity. 

The  water  was  so  cold  that  it  sent  a  shock  over  Helen, 
made  her  teeth  ache,  and  a  singular,  revivifying  current 
steal  all  through  her,  wonderful  in  its  cool  absorption  of 
that  dry  heat  of  flesh,  irresistible  in  its  appeal  to  thirst. 
Helen  raised  her  head  to  look  at  this  water.  It  was 
colorless  as  she  had  found  it  tasteless. 

" Nell— drink ! "  panted  Bo.  "Think  of  our— old  spring 
— in  the  orchard — full  of  pollywogs!" 

And  then  Helen  drank  thirstily,  with  closed  eyes,  while  a 
memory  of  home  stirred  from  Bo's  gift  of  poignant  speech. 

77 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  first  camp  duty  Dale  performed  was  to  throw  a 
pack  off  one  of  the  horses,  and,  opening  it,  he  took 
out  tarpaulin  and  blankets,  which  he  arranged  on  the 
ground  under  a  pine-tree. 

"You  girls  rest,"  he  said,  briefly. 

"Can't  we  help?"  asked  Helen,  though  she  could 
scarcely  stand. 

"You'll  be  welcome  to  do  all  you  like  after  you're  broke 
in." 

"Broke  in!"  ejaculated  Bo,  with  a  little  laugh.  "I'm 
all  broke  up  now." 

"Bo,  it  looks  as  if  Mr.  Dale  expects  us  to  have  quite  a 
stay  with  him  in  the  woods." 

"It  does,"  replied  Bo,  as  slowly  she  sat  down  upon  the 
blankets,  stretched  out  with  a  long  sigh,  and  laid  her  head 
on  a  saddle.  "  Nell,  didn't  he  say  not  to  call  him  Mister  ? " 

Dale  was  throwing  the  packs  off  the  other  horses. 

Helen  lay  down  beside  Bo,  and  then  for  once  in  her  life 
she  experienced  the  sweetness  of  rest. 

"Well,  sister,  what  do  you  intend  to  call  him?"  queried 
Helen,  curiously. 

"  Milt,  ot  course,"  replied  Bo. 

Helen  had  to  laugh  despite  her  weariness  and  aches. 

"I  suppose,  then,  when  your  Las  Vegas  cowboy  comes 
along  you  will  call  him  what  he  called  you." 

Bo  blushed,  which  was  a  rather  unusual  thing  for  her. 

"I  will  if  I  like,"  she  retorted.  "Nell,  ever  since  I 
could  remember  you've  raved  about  the  West.  Now 
you're  out  West,  right  in  it  good  and  deep.  So  wake  up ! " 

78 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

That  was  Bo's  blunt  and  characteristic  way  of  advising 
the  elimination  of  Helen's  superficialities.  It  sank  deep. 
Helen  had  no  retort.  Her  ambition,  as  far  as  the  West 
was  concerned,  had  most  assuredly  not  been  for  such  a 
wild,  unheard-of  jaunt  as  this.  But  possibly  the  West — 
a  living  from  day  to  day — was  one  succession  of  adven- 
tures, trials,  tests,  troubles,  and  achievements.  To  make 
a  place  for  others  to  live  comfortably  some  day!  That 
might  be  Bo's  meaning,  embodied  in  her  forceful  hint. 
But  Helen  was  too  tired  to  think  it  out  then.  She  found 
it  interesting  and  vaguely  pleasant  to  watch  Dale. 

He  hobbled  the  horses  and  turned  them  loose.  Then 
with  ax  in  hand  he  approached  a  short,  dead  tree,  stand- 
ing among  a  few  white-barked  aspens.  Dale  appeared 
to  advantage  swinging  the  ax.  With  his  coat  off,  dis- 
playing his  wide  shoulders,  straight  back,  and  long,  power- 
ful arms,  he  looked  a  young  giant.  He  was  lithe  and 
supple,  brawny  but  not  bulky.  The  ax  rang  on  the  hard 
wood,  reverberating  through  the  forest.  A  few  strokes 
sufficed  to  bring  down  the  stub.  Then  he  split  it  up. 
Helen  was  curious  to  see  how  he  kindled  a  fire.  First  he 
ripped  splinters  out  of  the  heart  of  the  log,  and  laid  them 
with  coarser  pieces  on  the  ground.  Then  from  a  saddle- 
bag which  hung  on  a  near-by  branch  he  took  flint  and 
steel  and  a  piece  of  what  Helen  supposed  was  rag  or  buck- 
skin, upon  which  powder  had  been  rubbed.  At  any  rate, 
the  first  strike  of  the  steel  brought  sparks,  a  blaze,  and 
burning  splinters.  Instantly  the  flame  leaped  a  foot  high. 
He  put  on  larger  pieces  of  wood  crosswise,  and  the  fire 
roared. 

That  done,  he  stood  erect,  and,  facing  the  north,  he 
listened.  Helen  remembered  now  that  she  had  seen  him 
do  the  same  thing  twice  before  since  the  arrival  at  Big 
Spring.  It  was  Roy  for  whom  he  was  listening  and  watch- 
ing. The  sun  had  set  and  across  the  open  space  the  tips 
of  the  pines  were  losing  their  brightness. 

The  camp  utensils,  which  the  hunter  emptied  out  of  a 

79 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

sack,  gave  forth  a  jangle  of  iron  and  tin.  Next  he  unrolled 
a  large  pack,  the  contents  of  which  appeared  to  be  numer- 
ous sacks  of  all  sizes.  These  evidently  contained  food- 
supplies.  The  bucket  looked  as  if  a  horse  had  rolled  over 
it,  pack  and  all.  Dale  filled  it  at  the  spring.  Upon  re- 
turning to  the  camp-fire  he  poured  water  into  a  wash- 
basin, and,  getting  down  to  his  knees,  proceeded  to  wash 
his  hands  thoroughly.  The  act  seemed  a  habit,  for  Helen 
saw  that  while  he  was  doing  it  he  gazed  off  into  the  woods 
and  listened.  Then  he  dried  his  hands  over  the  fire,  and, 
turning  to  the  spread-out  pack,  he  began  preparations  for 
the  meal. 

Suddenly  Helen  thought  of  the  man  and  all  that  his 
actions  implied.  At  Magdalena,  on  the  stage-ride,  and 
last  night,  she  had  trusted  this  stranger,  a  hunter  of  the 
White  Mountains,  who  appeared  ready  to  befriend  her. 
And  she  had  felt  an  exceeding  gratitude.  Still,  she  had 
looked  at  him  impersonally.  But  it  began  to  dawn  upon 
her  that  chance  had  thrown  her  in  the  company  of  a  re- 
markable man.  That  impression  baffled  her.  It  did  not 
spring  from  the  fact  that  he  was  brave  and  kind  to  help 
a  young  woman  in  peril,  or  that  he  appeared  deft  and 
quick  at  camp-fire  chores.  Most  Western  men  were 
brave,  her  uncle  had  told  her,  and  many  were  roughly 
kind,  and  all  of  them  could  cook.  This  hunter  was  physi- 
cally a  wonderful  specimen  of  manhood,  with  something 
leonine  about  his  stature.  But  that  did  not  give  rise  to 
her  impression.  Helen  had  been  a  school-teacher  and 
used  to  boys,  and  she  sensed  a  boyish  simplicity  or  vigor 
or  freshness  in  this  hunter.  She  believed,  however,  that 
it  was  a  mental  and  spiritual  force  in  Dale  which  had 
drawn  her  to  think  of  it. 

"Nell,  I've  spoken  to  you  three  times,"  protested  Bo» 
petulantly.  "What  're  you  mooning  over?" 

"I'm  pretty  tired — and  far  away,  Bo,"  replied  Helen* 
''What  did  you  say?" 

"  I  said  I  had  an  e-normous  appetite." 

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THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"Really.  That's  not  remarkable  for  you.  I'm  too 
tired  to  eat.  And  afraid  to  shut  my  eyes.  They'd  never 
come  open.  When  did  we  sleep  last,  Bo?" 

"Second  night  before  we  left  home,"  declared  Bo. 

"Four  nights!     Oh,  we've  slept  some." 

"I'll  bet  I  make  mine  up  in  this  woods.  Do  you  sup- 
pose  we'll  sleep  right  here — under  this  tree — with  no 
covering?" 

"It  looks  so,"  replied  Helen,  dubiously. 

"How  perfectly  lovely!"  exclaimed  Bo,  in  delight. 
"We'll  see  the  stars  through  the  pines." 

"Seems  to  be  clouding  over.  Wouldn't  it  be  awful  if 
we  had  a  storm?" 

"Why,  I  don't  know/'  answered  Bo,  thoughtfully.  "It 
must  storm  out  West." 

Again  Helen  felt  a  quality  of  inevitableness  in  Bo.  It 
was  something  that  had  appeared  only  practical  in  the 
humdrum  home  life  in  St.  Joseph.  All  of  a  sudden  Helen 
received  a  flash  of  wondering  thought — a  thrilling  con- 
sciousness that  she  and  Bo  had  begun  to  develop  in  a 
new  and  wild  environment.  How  strange,  and  fearful, 
perhaps,  to  watch  that  growth!  Bo,  being  younger,  more 
impressionable,  with  elemental  rather  than  intellectual  in- 
stincts, would  grow  stronger  more  swiftly.  Helen  won- 
dered if  she  could  yield  to  her  own  leaning  to  the  primitive. 
But  how  could  any  one  with  a  thoughtful  and  grasping 
mind  yield  that  way?  It  was  the  savage  who  did  not 
think. 

Helen  saw  Dale  stand  erect  once  more  and  gaze  into 
the  forest. 

"Reckon  Roy  ain't  comin',"  he  soliloquized.  "An* 
that's  good."  Then  he  turned  to  the  girls.  "Supper's 
ready." 

The  girls  responded  with  a  spirit  greater  than  their 
activity.  And  they  ate  like  famished  children  that  had 
been  lost  in  the  woods.  Dale  attended  them  with  a 
pleasant  light  upon  his  still  face. 

81 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"To-morrow  night  we'll  have  meat,"  he  said. 

"What  kind?"  asked  Bo. 

"Wild  turkey  or  deer.  Maybe  both,  if  you  like.  But 
it's  well  to  take  wild  meat  slow.  An'  turkey — that  '11 
melt  in  your  mouth." 

"Uummm!"  murmured  Bo,  greedily.  "I've  heard  of 
wild  turkey." 

When  they  had  finished  Dale  ate  his  meal  listening  to 
the  talk  of  the  girls,  and  occasionally  replying  briefly  t<? 
some  query  of  Bo's.  It  was  twilight  when  he  began  tG 
wash  the  pots  and  pans,  and  almost  dark  by  the  time  his 
duties  appeared  ended.  Then  he  replenished  the  camp- 
fire  and  sat  down  on  a  log  to  gaze  into  the  flames.  The 
girls  leaned  comfortably  propped  against  the  saddles. 

"Nell,  I'll  keel  over  in  a  minute,"  said  Bo.  "And  I 
oughtn't — right  on  such  a  big  supper." 

"I  don't  see  how  I  can  sleep,  and  I  know  I  can't  stay 
awake,"  rejoined  Helen. 

Dale  lifted  his  head  alertly. 

"Listen." 

The  girls  grew  tense  and  still.  Helen  could  not  hear  a 
sound,  unless  it  was  a  low  thud  of  hoof  out  in  the  gloom. 
The  forest  seemed  sleeping.  She  knew  from  Bo's  eyes, 
wide  and  shining  in  the  camp-fire  light,  that  she,  too,  had 
failed  to  catch  whatever  it  was  Dale  meant. 

"Bunch  of  coyotes  comin',"  he  explained. 

Suddenly  the  quietness  split  to  a  chorus  of  snappy, 
high-strung,  strange  barks.  They  sounded  wild,  yet 
they  held  something  of  a  friendly  or  inquisitive  note. 
Presently  gray  forms  could  be  descried  just  at  the 
edge  of  the  circle  of  light.  Soft  rustlings  of  stealthy 
feet  surrounded  the  camp,  and  then  barks  and  yelps 
broke  out  all  around.  It  was  a  restless  and  sneaking 
pack  of  animals,  thought  Helen;  she  was  glad  after 
the  chorus  ended  and  with  a  few  desultory,  spiteful 
yelps  the  coyotes  went  away. 

Silence  again  settled  down.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the 

82 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

anxiety  always  present  in  Helen's  mind  she  would  have 
thought  this  silence  sweet  and  unfamiliarly  beautiful. 

"Ah!  Listen  to  that  fellow,"  spoke  up  Dale.  His  voice 
was  thrilling. 

Again  the  girls  strained  their  ears.  That  was  not  nec- 
essary, for  presently,  clear  and  cold  out  of  the  silence, 
pealed  a  mournful  howl,  long  drawn,  strange  and  full  and 
wild. 

"Oh!    What's  that?"  whispered  Bo. 

"That's  a  big  gray  wolf — a  timber-wolf,  or  lofer,  as 
he's  sometimes  called,"  replied  Dale.  "He's  high  on 
some  rocky  ridge  back  there.  He  scents  us,  an'  he 
doesn't  like  it.  ...  There  he  goes  again.  Listen!  .  .  . 
Ah,  he's  hungry." 

While  Helen  listened  to  this  exceedingly  wild  cry — so 
wild  that  it  made  her  flesh  creep  and  the  most  indescrib- 
able sensations  of  loneliness  come  over  her — she  kept  her 
glance  upon  Dale. 

"You  love  him?"  sne  murmured  involuntarily,  quite 
without  understanding  the  motive  of  her  query. 

Assuredly  Dale  had  never  had  that  question  asked  of 
him  before,  and  it  seemed  to  Helen,  as  he  pondered,  that 
he  had  never  even  asked  it  of  himself. 

"I  reckon  so,"  he  replied,  presently. 

"But  wolves  kill  deer,  and  little  fawns,  and  everything 
helpless  in  the  forest,"  expostulated  Bo. 

The  hunter  nodded  his  head. 

"Why,  then,  can  you  love  him?"  repeated  Helen. 

"Come  to  think  of  it,  I  reckon  it's  because  of  lots  of 
reasons,"  returned  Dale.  "He  kills  clean.  He  eats  no 
carrion.  He's  no  coward.  He  fights.  He  dies  game. 
.  .  .  An'  he  likes  to  be  alone." 

"Kills  clean.     What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"A  cougar,  now,  he  mangles  a  deer.  An'  a  silvertip, 
when  killin'  a  cow  or  colt,  he  makes  a  mess  of  it.  But  a 
wolf  kills  clean,  with  sharp  snaps." 

"What  are  a  cougar  and  a  silvertip?" 

83 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"  Cougar  means  mountain-lion  or  panther,  an'  a  silver- 
tip  is  a  grizzly  bear." 

"Oh,  they're  all  cruel!"  exclaimed  Helen,  shrinking. 

"  I  reckon.     Often  I've  shot  wolves  for  relayin'  a  deer." 

"What's  that?" 

"Sometimes  two  or  more  wolves  will  run  a  deer,  an* 
while  one  of  them  rests  the  other  will  drive  the  deer  around 
to  his  pardner,  who'll  take  up  the  chase.  That  way  they 
run  the  deer  down.  Cruel  it  is,  but  nature,  an'  no  worse 
than  snow  an'  ice  that  starve  deer,  or  a  fox  that  kills 
turkey-chicks  breakin'  out  of  the  egg,  or  ravens  that  pick 
the  eyes  out  of  new-born  lambs  an'  wait  till  they  die. 
An'  for  that  matter,  men  are  crueler  than  beasts  of  prey, 
for  men  add  to  nature,  an'  have  more  than  instincts." 

Helen  was  silenced,  as  well  as  shocked.  She  had  not  only 
learned  a  new  and  striking  viewpoint  in  natural  history, 
but  a  clear  intimation  to  the  reason  why  she  had  vaguely 
imagined  or  divined  a  remarkable  character  in  this  man. 
A  hunter  was  one  who  killed  animals  for  their  fur,  for 
their  meat  or  horns,  or  for  some  lust  for  blood — that  was 
Helen's  definition  of  a  hunter,  and  she  believed  it  was 
held  by  the  majority  of  people  living  in  settled  states. 
But  the  majority  might  be  wrong.  A  hunter  might  be 
vastly  different,  and  vastly  more  than  a  tracker  and 
slayer  of  game.  The  mountain  world  of  forest  was  a 
mystery  to  almost  all  men.  Perhaps  Dale  knew  its 
secrets,  its  life,  its  terror,  its  beauty,  its  sadness,  and  its 
joy;  and  if  so,  how  full,  how  wonderful  must  be  his 
mind !  He  spoke  of  men  as  no  better  than  wolves.  Could 
a  lonely  life  in  the  wilderness  teach  a  man  that?  Bitter- 
ness, envy,  jealousy,  spite,  greed,  and  hate — these  had  no 
place  in  this  hunter's  heart.  It  was  not  Helen's  shrewd- 
ness, but  a  woman's  intuition,  which  divined  that. 

Dale  rose  to  his  feet  and,  turning  his  ear  to  the  north, 
listened  once  more. 

"Are  you  expecting  Roy  still?"  inquired  Helen. 

"No,  it  ain't  likely  he'll  turn  up  to-night,"  replied  Dale 

84 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

and  then  he  strode  over  to  put  a  hand  on  the  pine-tree 
that  soared  above  where  the  girls  lay.  His  action,  and 
the  way  he  looked  up  at  the  tree-top  and  then  at  adjacent 
trees,  held  more  of  that  significance  which  so  interested 
Helen. 

"  I  reckon  he's  stood  there  some  five  hundred  years  an' 
will  stand  through  to-night,"  muttered  Dale. 

This  pine  was  the  monarch  of  that  wide-spread  group. 

"  Listen  again,"  said  Dale. 

Bo  was  asleep.  And  Helen,  listening,  at  once  caught 
a  low,  distant  roar. 

"Wind.  It's  goin'  to  storm,"  explained  Dale.  "You'll 
hear  somethin'  worth  while.  But  don't  be  scared.  Reckon 
we'll  be  safe.  Pines  blow  down  often.  But  this  fellow 
will  stand  any  fall  wind  that  ever  was.  .  .  .  Better  slip 
under  the  blankets  so  I  can  pull  the  tarp  up." 

Helen  slid  down,  just  as  she  was,  fully  dressed  except 
for  boots,  which  she  and  Bo  had  removed;  and  she  laid 
her  head  close  to  Bo's.  Dale  pulled  the  tarpaulin  up  and 
folded  it  back  just  below  their  heads. 

"When  it  rains  you'll  wake,  an'  then  just  pull  the  tarp 
up  over  you,"  he  said. 

"Will  it  rain?"  Helen  asked.  But  she  was  thinking 
that  this  moment  was  the  strangest  that  had  ever  hap- 
pened to  her.  By  the  light  of  the  camp-fire  she  saw 
Dale's  face,  just  as  usual,  still,  darkly  serene,  expressing 
no  thought.  He  was  kind,  but  he  was  not  thinking  of 
these  sisters  as  girls,  alone  with  him  in  a  pitch-black 
/forest,  helpless  and  defenseless.  He  did  not  seem  to  ba 
thinking  at  all.  But  Helen  had  never  before  in  her  life 
been  so  keenly  susceptible  to  experience. 

"I'll  be  close  by  an'  keep  the  fire  goin'  all  night,"  he 
said. 

She  heard  him  stride  off  into  the  darkness.  Presently 
there  came  a  dragging,  bumping  sound,  then  a  crash  of  a 
log  dropped  upon  the  fire.  A  cloud  of  sparks  shot  up., 
and  many  pattered  down  to  hiss  upon  the  damp  ground 

85 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Smoke  again  curled  upward  along  the  great,  seamed  tree- 
trunk,  and  flames  sputtered  and  crackled. 

Helen  listened  again  for  the  roar  of  wind.  It  seemed 
to  come  on  a  breath  of  air  that  fanned  her  cheek  and  softly 
blew  Bo's  curls,  and  it  was  stronger.  But  it  died  out 
presently,  only  to  come  again,  and  still  stronger.  Helen 
realized  then  that  the  sound  was  that  of  an  approaching 
storm.  Her  heavy  eyelids  almost  refused  to  stay  open, 
and  she  knew  if  she  let  them  close  she  would  instantly 
drop  to  sleep.  And  she  wanted  to  hear  the  storm- wind 
in  the  pines. 

A  few  drops  of  cold  rain  fell  upon  her  face,  thrilling  her 
with  the  proof  that  no  roof  stood  between  her  and  the 
elements.  Then  a  breeze  bore  the  smell  of  burnt  wood 
into  her  face,  and  somehow  her  quick  mind  flew  to  girl- 
hood days  when  she  burned  brush  and  leaves  with  her 
little  brothers.  The  memory  faded.  The  roar  that  had 
seemed  distant  was  now  back  in  the  forest,  coming  swiftly, 
increasing  in  volume.  Like  a  stream  in  flood  it  bore 
down.  Helen  grew  amazed,  startled.  How  rushing,  on- 
coming, and  heavy  this  storm-wind!  She  likened  its  ap- 
proach to  the  tread  of  an  army.  Then  the  roar  filled  the 
forest,  yet  it  was  back  there  behind  her.  Not  a  pine- 
needle  quivered  in  the  light  of  the  camp-fire.  But  the 
air  seemed  to  be  oppressed  with  a  terrible  charge.  The 
roar  augmented  till  it  was  no  longer  a  roar,  but  an  on- 
sweeping  crash,  like  an  ocean  torrent  engulfing  the  earth. 
Bo  awoke  to  cling  to  Helen  with  fright.  The  deafening 
storm-blast  was  upon  them.  Helen  felt  the  saddle-pillow 
move  under  her  head.  The  giant  pine  nad  trembled  to 
its  very  roots.  That  mighty  fury  of  wind  was  all  aloft, 
in  the  tree-tops.  And  for  a  long  moment  it  bowed  the 
forest  under  its  tremendous  power.  Then  the  deafening 
crash  passed  to  roar,  and  that  swept  on  and  on,  lessening 
in  volume,  deepening  in  lew  detonation,  at  last  to  die  in 
the  distance. 

No  sooner  had  it  died  than  back  to  the  north  another 

86 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

low  roar  rose  and  ceased  and  rose  again.  Helen  lay  there, 
whispering  to  Bo  and  heard  again  the  great  wave  of  wind 
come  and  crash  and  cease.  That  was  the  way  of  this 
storm-wind  of  the  mountain  forest. 

A  soft  patter  of  rain  on  the  tarpaulin  warned  Helen  to 
remember  Dale's  directions,  and,  pulling  up  the  heavy 
covering,  she  arranged  it  hoodlike  over  the  saddle.  Then, 
with  Bo  close  and  warm  beside  her,  she  closed  her  eyes, 
and  the  sense  of  the  black  forest  and  the  wind  and  rain 
faded.  Last  of  all  sensations  was  the  smell  of  smoke  that 
blew  under  the  tarpaulin. 

When  she  opened  her  eyes  she  remembered  everything, 
as  if  only  a  moment  had  elapsed.  But  it  was  daylight, 
though  gray  and  cloudy.  The  pines  were  dripping  mist. 
A  fire  crackled  cheerily  and  blue  smoke  curled  upward 
and  a  savory  odor  of  hot  coffee  hung  in  the  air.  Horses 
were  standing  near  by,  biting  and  kicking  at  one  another. 
Bo  was  sound  asleep.  Dale  appeared  busy  around  the 
camp-fire.  As  Helen  watched  the  hunter  she  saw  him 
pause  in  his  task,  turn  his  ear  to  listen,  and  then  look 
expectantly.  And  at  that  juncture  a  shout  pealed  from 
the  forest.  Helen  recognized  Roy's  voice.  Then  she 
heard  a  splashing  of  water,  and  hoof-beats  coming  closer. 
With  that  the  buckskin  mustang  trotted  into  camp, 
carrying  Roy. 

"Bad  mornin'  for  ducks,  but  good  for  us,"  he  called. 

"Howdy,  Roy!"  greeted  Dale,  and  his  gladness  was 
unmistakable.  "I  was  lookin'  for  you." 

Roy  appeared  to  slide  off  the  mustang  without  effort, 
and  his  swift  hands  slapped  the  straps  as  he  unsaddled. 
Buckskin  was  wet  with  sweat  and  foam  mixed  with  rain. 
He  heaved.  And  steam  rose  from  him. 

"Must  have  rode  hard,"  observed  Dale. 

"I  shore  did,"  replied  Roy.  Then  he  espied  Helen, 
who  had  sat  up,  with  hands  to  her  hair,  and  eyes  staring 
at  him.  "Mornin',  miss.  It's  good  news." 

87 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Thank  Heaven!"  murmured  Helen,  and  then  she 
shook  Bo.  That  young  lady  awoke,  but  was  loath  to 
give  up  slumber.  "Bo!  Bo!  Wake  up!  Mr.  Roy  is 
back." 

Whereupon  Bo  sat  up,  disheveled  and  sleepy-eyed. 

"Oh-h,  but  I  ache!"  she  moaned.  But  her  eyes  took 
in  the  camp  scene  to  the  effect  that  she  added,  "Is  break- 
fast ready?" 

"Almost.    An'  flapjacks  this  mornin',"  replied  Dale. 

Bo  manifested  active  symptoms  of  health  in  the  man- 
ner with  which  she  laced  her  boots.  Helen  got  their 
traveling-bag,  and  with  this  they  repaired  to  a  flat  stone 
beside  the  spring,  not,  however,  out  of  earshot  of  the 
paen. 

"How  long  are  you  goin'  to  hang  around  camp  before 
tellin'  me?"  inquired  Dale. 

"Jest  as  I  figgered,  Milt,"  replied  Roy.  "Thet  rider 
who  passed  you  was  a  messenger  to  Anson.  He  an*  his 
gang  got  on  our  trail  quick.  About  ten  o'clock  I  seen 
them  comin'.  Then  I  lit  out  for  the  woods.  I  stayed 
off  in  the  woods  close  enough  to  see  where  they  come  in. 
An*  shore  they  lost  your  trail.  Then  they  spread  through 
the  woods,  workin*  off  to  the  south,  thinkin',  of  course, 
thet  you  would  circle  round  to  Pine  on  the  south  side  of 
Old  Baldy.  There  ain't  a  hoss-tracker  in  Snake  Anson's 
gang,  thet's  shore.  Wai,  I  follered  them  for  an  hour  till 
they'd  rustled  some  miles  off  our  trail.  Then  I  went  back 
to  where  you  struck  into  the  woods.  An'  I  waited  there 
all  afternoon  till  dark,  expectin'  mebbe  they'd  back-trail. 
But  they  didn't.  I  rode  on  a  ways  an'  camped  in  the 
woods  till  jest  before  daylight." 

"So  far  so  good,"  declared  Dale. 

"Shore.  There's  rough  country  south  of  Baldy  an' 
along  the  two  or  three  trails  Anson  an'  his  outfit  will 
camp,  you  bet." 

"It  ain't  to  be  thought  of,"  muttered  Dale,  at  some 
idea  that  had  struck  him. 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"What  ain't?" 

"Coin'  round  the  north  side  of  Baldy." 

"It  shore  ain't,"  rejoined  Roy,  bluntly. 

"Then  I've  got  to  hide  tracks  certain — rustle  to  my 
camp  an'  stay  there  till  you  say  it's  safe  to  risk  takin' 
the  girls  to  Pine." 

"Milt,  you're  talkin'  the  wisdom  of  the  prophets." 

"  I  ain't  so  sure  we  can  hide  tracks  altogether.  If  Anson 
had  any  eyes  for  the  woods  he'd  not  have  lost  me  so  soon." 

"No.     But,  you  see,  he's  figgerin'  to  cross  your  trail." 

"If  I  could  get  fifteen  or  twenty  mile  farther  on  an' 
hide  tracks  certain,  I'd  feel  safe  from  pursuit,  anyway," 
said  the  hunter,  reflectively. 

"Shore  an'  easy,"  responded  Roy,  quickly.  "I  jest 
met  up  with  some  greaser  sheep-herders  drivin'  a  big 
flock.  They've  come  up  from  the  south  an'  are  goin'  to 
fatten  up  at  Turkey  Senacas.  Then  they'll  drive  back 
south  an'  go  on  to  Phenix.  Wai,  it's  muddy  weather. 
Now  you  break  camp  quick  an'  make  a  plain  trail  out  to 
thet  sheep  trail,  as  if  you  was  travelin'  south.  But,  in- 
stead, you  ride  round  ahead  of  thet  flock  of  sheep.  They'll 
keep  to  the  open  parks  an'  the  trails  through  them  necks 
of  woods  out  here.  An',  passin'  over  your  tracks,  they'll 
hide  'em." 

"But  supposin'  Anson  circles  an'  hits  this  camp?  He'll 
track  me  easy  out  to  that  sheep  trail.  What  then?" 

"Jest  what  you  want.  Goin'  south  thet  sheep  trail  is 
downhill  an'  muddy.  It's  goin'  to  rain  hard.  Your 
tracks  would  get  washed  out  even  if  you  did  go  south. 
An'  Anson  would  keep  on  thet  way  till  he  was  clear  off 
the  scent.  Leave  it  to  me,  Milt.  You're  a  hunter.  But 
I'm  a  hoss-tracker." 

"All  right.     We'll  rustle." 

Then  he  called  the  girls  to  hurry. 

7 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ONCE  astride  the  horse  again,  Helen  had  to  congratu- 
late herself  upon  not  being  so  crippled  as  she  had 
imagined.  Indeed,  Bo  made  all  the  audible  complaints. 

Both  girls  had  long  water-proof  coats,  brand-new,  and 
of  which  they  were  considerably  proud.  New  clothes  had 
not  been  a  common  event  in  their  lives. 

"Reckon  I'll  have  to  slit  these,"  Dale  had  said,  whipping 
out  a  huge  knife. 

"What  for?"  had  been  Bo's  feeble  protest. 

* '  They  wasn't  made  for  ridin' .  An'  you'll  get  wet  enough 
even  if  I  do  cut  them.  An'  if  I  don't,  you'll  get  soaked." 

"Go  ahead,"  had  been  Helen's  reluctant  permission. 

So  their  long  new  coats  were  slit  half-way  up  the  back. 
The  exigency  of  the  case  was  manifest  to  Helen,  when  she 
saw  how  they  came  down  over  the  cantles  of  the  saddles 
and  to  their  boot-tops. 

The  morning  was  gray  and  cold.  A  fine,  misty  rain 
fell  and  the  trees  dripped  steadily.  Helen  was  surprised 
to  see  the  open  country  again  and  that  apparently  they 
were  to  leave  the  forest  behind  for  a  while.  The  country 
was  wide  and  flat  on  the  right,  and  to  the  left  it  rolled  and 
heaved  along  a  black,  scalloped  timber-line.  Above  this 
bordering  of  the  forest  low,  drifting  clouds  obscured  the 
mountains.  The  wind  was  at  Helen's  back  and  seemed 
to  be  growing  stronger.  Dale  and  Roy  were  ahead,  travel- 
ing at  a  good  trot,  with  the  pack-animals  bunched  before 
them.  Helen  and  Bo  had  enough  to  do  to  keep  up. 

The  first  hour's  ride  brought  little  change  in  weather  or 
scenery,  but  it  gave  Helen  an  inkling  of  what  she  must 

90 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

endure  if  they  kept  that  up  all  day.  She  began  to  wel- 
come the  places  where  the  horses  walked,  but  she  disliked 
the  levels.  As  for  the  descents,  she  hated  those.  Ranger 
would  not  go  down  slowly  and  the  shake-up  she  received 
was  unpleasant.  Moreover,  the  spirited  black  horse  in- 
sisted on  jumping  the  ditches  and  washes.  He  sailed  over 
them  like  a  bird.  Helen  could  not  acquire  the  knack  of 
sitting  the  saddle  properly,  and  so,  not  only  was  her  per- 
son bruised  on  these  occasions,  but  her  feelings  were  hurt. 
Helen  had  never  before  been  conscious  of  vanity.  Still, 
she  had  never  rejoiced  in  looking  at  a  disadvantage,  and 
her  exhibitions  here  must  have  been  frightful.  Bo  always 
would  forge  to  the  front,  and  she  seldom  looked  back,  for 
which  Helen  was  grateful. 

Before  long  they  struck  into  a  broad,  muddy  belt,  full 
of  innumerable  small  hoof  tracks.  This,  then,  was  the 
sheep  trail  Roy  had  advised  following.  They  rode  on  it 
for  three  or  four  miles,  and  at  length,  coming  to  a  gray- 
green  valley,  they  saw  a  huge  flock  of  sheep.  Soon  the 
air  was  full  of  bleats  and  baas  as  well  as  the  odor  of  sneep, 
and  a  low,  soft  roar  of  pattering  hoofs.  The  flock  held  a 
compact  formation,  covering  several  acres,  and  grazed 
along  rapidly.  There  were  three  herders  on  horses  and 
several  pack-burros.  Dale  engaged  one  of  the  Mexicans 
in  conversation,  and  passed  something  to  him,  then 
pointed  northward  and  down  along  the  trail.  The  Mexi- 
can grinned  from  ear  to  ear,  and  Helen  caught  the  quick 
"St,  senor!  Gracias,  scnor!"  It  was  a  pretty  sight,  that 
flock  of  sheep,  as  it  rolled  along  like  a  rounded  woolly 
stream  of  grays  and  browns  and  here  and  there  a  black. 
They  were  keeping  to  a  trail  over  the  flats.  Dale  headed 
into  this  trail  and,  if  anything,  trotted  a  little  faster. 

Presently  the  clouds  lifted  and  broke,  showing  blue 
sky  and  one  streak  of  sunshine.  But  the  augury  was 
without  warrant.  The  wind  increased.  A  huge  black 
pall  bore  down  from  the  mountains  and  it  brought  rain 
that  could  be  seen  falling  in  sheets  from  above  and  aj> 

91 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

preaching  like  a  swiftly  moving  wall.  Soon  it  enveloped 
the  fugitives. 

With  head  bowed,  Helen  rode  along  for  what  seemed 
ages  in  a  cold,  gray  rain  that  blew  almost  on  a  level. 
Finally  the  heavy  downpour  passed,  leaving  a  fine  mist. 
The  clouds  scurried  low  and  dark,  hiding  the  mountains 
altogether  and  making  the  gray,  wet  plain  a  dreary  sight. 
Helen's  feet  and  knees  were  as  wet  as  if  she  had  waded  in 
water.  And  they  were  cold.  Her  gloves,  too,  had  not 
been  intended  for  rain,  and  they  were  wet  through.  The 
cold  bit  at  her  fingers  so  that  she  had  to  beat  her  hands 
together.  Ranger  misunderstood  this  to  mean  that  he 
was  to  trot  faster,  which  event  was  worse  for  Helen  than 
freezing. 

She  saw  another  black,  scudding  mass  of  clouds  bearing 
down  with  its  trailing  sheets  of  rain,  and  this  one  appeared 
streaked  with  white.  Snow!  The  wind  was  now  pierc- 
ingly cold.  Helen's  body  kept  warm,  but  her  extremities 
and  ears  began  to  suffer  exceedingly.  She  gazed  ahead 
grimly.  There  was  no  help;  she  had  to  go  on.  Dale 
and  Roy  were  hunched  down  in  their  saddles,  probably 
wet  through,  for  they  wore  no  rain-proof  coats.  Bo  kept 
close  behind  them,  and  plain  it  was  that  she  felt  the  cold. 

This  second  storm  was  not  so  bad  as  the  first,  because 
there  was  less  rain.  Still,  the  icy  keenness  of  the  wind 
bit  into  the  marrow.  It  lasted  for  an  hour,  during  which 
the  horses  trotted  on,  trotted  on.  Again  the  gray  torrent 
roared  away,  the  fine  mist  blew,  the  clouds  lifted  and 
separated,  and,  closing  again,  darkened  for  another  on- 
slaught. This  one  brought  sleet.  The  driving  pellets 
stung  Helen's  neck  and  cheeks,  and  for  a  while  they  fell 
so  thick  and  so  hard  upon  her  back  that  she  was  afraid 
she  could  not  hold  up  under  them.  The  bare  places  on 
the  ground  showed  a  sparkling  coverlet  of  marbles  of  ice. 

Thus,  storm  after  storm  rolled  over  Helen's  head.  Her 
feet  grew  numb  and  ceased  to  hurt.  But  her  fingers,  be- 
cause of  her  ceaseless  efforts  to  keep  up  the  circulation^ 

92 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

retained  the  stinging  pain.  And  now  the  wind  pierced 
right  through  her.  She  marveled  at  her  endurance,  and 
there  were  many  times  that  she  believed  she  could  not 
ride  farther.  Yet  she  kept  on.  All  the  winters  she  had 
ever  lived  had  not  brought  such  a  day  as  this.  Hard 
and  cold,  wet  and  windy,  at  an  increasing  elevation — that 
was  the  explanation.  The  air  did  not  have  sufficient  oxy- 
gen for  her  blood. 

Still,  during  all  those  interminable  hours,  Helen  watched 
where  she  was  traveling,  and  if  she  ever  returned  over 
that  trail  she  would  recognize  it.  The  afternoon  ap- 
peared far  advanced  when  Dale  and  Roy  led  down  into 
an  immense  basin  where  a  reedy  lake  spread  over  the 
flats.  They  rode  along  its  margin,  splashing  up  to  the 
knees  of  the  horses.  Cranes  and  herons  flew  on  with 
lumbering  motion;  flocks  of  ducks  winged  swift  flight 
from  one  side  to  the  other.  Beyond  this  depression  the 
land  sloped  rather  abruptly;  outcroppings  of  rock  circled 
along  the  edge  of  the  highest  ground,  and  again  a  dark 
fringe  of  trees  appeared. 

How  many  miles!  wondered  Helen.  They  seemed  as 
many  and  as  long  as  the  hours.  But  at  last,  just  as 
another  hard  rain  came,  the  pines  were  reached.  They 
proved  to  be  widely  scattered  and  afforded  little  protec- 
tion from  the  storm. 

Helen  sat  her  saddle,  a  dead  weight.  Whenever  Ranger 
quickened  his  gait  or  crossed  a  ditch  she  held  on  to  the 
pommel  to  keep  from  falling  off.  Her  mind  harbored  only 
sensations  of  misery,  and  a  persistent  thought — why  did 
she  ever  leave  home  for  the  West  ?  Her  solicitude  for  Bo 
had  been  forgotten.  Nevertheless,  any  marked  change 
in  the  topography  of  the  country  was  registered,  perhaps 
photographed  on  her  memory  by  the  torturing  vividness 
of  her  experience. 

The  forest  grew  more  level  and  denser.  Shadows  of 
twilight  or  gloom  lay  under  the  trees.  Presently  Dale 
and  Roy  disappeared,  going  downhill,  and  likewise  Bo* 

03 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST. 

Then  Helen's  ears  suddenly  filled  with  a  roar  of  rapid 
water.  Ranger  trotted  faster.  Soon  Helen  came  to  the 
edge  of  a  great  valley,  black  and  gray,  so  full  of  obscurity 
that  she  could  not  see  across  or  down  into  it.  But  she 
knew  there  was  a  rushing  river  at  the  bottom.  The 
sound  was  deep,  continuous,  a  heavy,  murmuring  roar, 
singularly  musical.  The  trail  was  steep.  Helen  had  not 
lost  all  feeling,  as  she  had  believed  and  hoped.  Her  poor, 
mistreated  body  still  responded  excruciatingly  to  concus- 
sions, jars,  wrenches,  and  all  the  other  horrible  move- 
ments making  up  a  horse-trot. 

For  long  Helen  did  not  look  up.  When  she  did  so  there 
lay  a  green,  willow-bordered,  treeless  space  at  the  bottom 
of  the  valley,  through  which  a  brown-white  stream  rushed 
with  steady,  ear-filling  roar. 

Dale  and  Roy  drove  the  pack-animals  across  the  stream, 
and  followed,  going  deep  to  the  flanks  of  their  horses.  Bo 
rode  into  the  foaming  water  as  if  she  had  been  used  to  it 
all  her  days.  A  slip,  a  fall,  would  have  meant  that  Bo 
must  drown  in  that  mountain  torrent. 

Ranger  trotted  straight  to  the  edge,  and  there,  obedient 
to  Helen's  clutch  on  the  bridle,  he  halted.  The  stream 
was  fifty  feet  wide,  shallow  on  the  near  side,  deep  on  the 
opposite,  with  fast  current  and  big  waves.  Helen  was 
simply  too  frightened  to  follow. 

"Let  him  come!"  yelled  Dale.  "Stick  on  now!  .  .  . 
Ranger!" 

The  big  black  plunged  in,  making  the  water  fly.  That 
stream  was  nothing  for  him,  though  it  seemed  impassable 
to  Helen.  She  had  not  the  strength  left  to  lift  her  stirrups 
and  the  water  surged  over  them.  Ranger,  in  two  more 
plunges,  surmounted  the  bank,  and  then,  trotting  across 
the  green  to  where  the  other  horses  stood  steaming  under 
some  pines,  he  gave  a  great  heave  and  halted. 

Roy  reached  up  Co  help  her  off. 

"Thirty  miles,  Miss  Helen/'  he  said,  and  the  way  he 
spoke  was  a  compliment, 

94 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

He  had  to  lift  her  off  and  help  her  to  the  tree  where  Bo 
leaned.  Dale  had  ripped  off  a  saddle  and  was  spreading 
saddle-blankets  on  the  ground  under  the  pine. 

"Nell — you  swore — you  loved  me!"  was  Bo's  mourn- 
ful greeting.  The  girl  was  pale,  drawn,  blue-lipped,  and 
she  could  not  stand  up. 

"Bo,  I  never  did — or  I'd  never  have  brought  you  to 
this — wretch  that  I  am!'1  cried  Helen.  "Oh,  what  a 
horrible  ride!" 

Rain  was  falling,  the  trees  were  dripping,  the  sky  was 
lowering.  All  the  ground  was  soaking  wet,  with  pools 
and  puddles  everywhere.  Helen  could  imagine  nothing 
but  a  heartless,  dreary,  cold  prospect.  Just  then  home 
was  vivid  and  poignant  in  her  thoughts.  Indeed,  so  utterly 
miserable  was  she  that  the  exquisite  relief  of  sitting  down, 
of  a  cessation  of  movement,  of  a  release  from  that  infernal 
perpetual-trotting  horse,  seemed  only  a  mockery.  It  could 
not  be  true  that  the  time  had  come  for  rest. 

Evidently  this  place  had  been  a  camp  site  for  hunters 
or  sheep-herders,  for  there  were  remains  of  a  fire.  Dale 
lifted  the  burnt  end  of  a  log  and  brought  it  down  hard 
upon  the  ground,  splitting  off  pieces.  Several  times  he 
did  this.  It  was  amazing  to  see  his  strength,  his  facility, 
as  he  split  off  handfuls  of  splinters.  He  collected  a 
bundle  of  them,  and,  laying  them  down,  he  bent  over 
them.  Roy  wielded  the  ax  on  another  log,  and  each 
stroke  split  off  a  long  strip.  Then  a  tiny  column  of  smoke 
drifted  up  over  Dale's  shoulder  as  he  leaned,  bareheaded, 
sheltering  the  splinters  with  his  hat.  A  blaze  leaped  up. 
Roy  came  with  an  armful  of  strips  all  white  and  dry,  out 
of  the  inside  of  a  log.  Crosswise  these  were  laid  over  the 
blaze,  and  it  began  to  roar.  Then  piece  by  piece  the 
men  built  up  a  frame  upon  which  they  added  heavier 
woods,  branches  and  stumps  and  logs,  erecting  a  pyramid 
through  which  flames  and  smoke  roared  upward.  It  had 
not  taken  two  minutes.  Already  Helen  felt  the  warmth 
on  her  icy  face.  She  held  up  her  bare,  numb  hands. 

95 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Both  Dale  and  Roy  were  wet  through  to  the  skin,  yet 
they  did  not  tarry  beside  the  fire.  They  relieved  the 
horses.  A  lasso  went  up  between  two  pines,  and  a  tar- 
paulin over  it,  V-shaped  and  pegged  down  at  the  four 
ends.  The  packs  containing  the  baggage  of  the  girls  and 
the  supplies  and  bedding  were  placed  under  this  shelter. 

Helen  thought  this  might  have  taken  five  minutes  more. 
In  this  short  space  of  time  the  fire  had  leaped  and  flamed 
until  it  was  huge  and  hot.  Rain  was  falling  steadily  all 
around,  but  over  and  near  that  roaring  blaze,  ten  feet 
high,  no  water  fell.  It  evaporated.  The  ground  began  to 
steam  and  to  dry.  Helen  suffered  at  first  while  the  heat 
was  driving  out  the  cold.  But  presently  the  pain  ceased. 

"Nell,  I  never  knew  before  how  good  a  fire  could  feel," 
declared  Bo. 

And  therein  lay  more  food  for  Helen's  reflection. 

In  ten  minutes  Helen  was  dry  and  hot.  Darkness  came 
down  upon  the  dreary,  sodden  forest,  but  that  great 
camp-fire  made  it  a  different  world  from  the  one  Helen 
had  anticipated.  It  blazed  and  roared,  cracked  like  a 
pistol,  hissed  and  sputtered,  shot  sparks  everywhere,  and 
sent  aloft  a  dense,  yellow,  whirling  column  of  smoke.  It 
began  to  have  a  heart  of  gold. 

Dale  took  a  long  pole  and  raked  out  a  pile  of  red  embers 
upon  which  the  coffee-pot  and  oven  soon  began  to  steam. 

"Roy,  I  promised  the  girls  turkey  to-night,"  said  Llie 
hunter. 

"  Mebbe  to-morrow,  if  the  wind  shifts.  This  's  turkey 
country." 

"Roy,  a  potato  will  do  me!"  exclaimed  Bo.  "Never 
again  will  I  ask  for  cake  and  pie!  I  never  appreciated 
good  things  to  eat.  And  I've  been  a  little  pig,  always.  I 
never — never  knew  what  it  was  to  be  hungry — until  now." 

Dale  glanced  up  quickly. 

"Lass,  it's  worth  learnin',"  he  said. 

Helen's  thought  was  too  deep  for  words.  In  such  brief 
space  had  she  been  transformed  from  misery  to  comfort  I 

96 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

The  rain  kept  on  falling,  though  it  appeared  to  grow 
softer  as  night  settled  down  black.  The  wind  died  away 
and  the  forest  was  still,  except  for  the  steady  roar  of  the 
stream.  A  folded  tarpaulin  was  laid  between  the  pine 
and  the  fire,  well  in  the  light  and  warmth,  and  upon  it 
the  men  set  steaming  pots  and  plates  and  cups,  the  fra- 
grance from  which  was  strong  and  inviting. 

"Fetch  the  saddle-blanket  an'  set  with  your  backs  to 
the  fire,"  said  Roy. 

Later,  when  the  girls  were  tucked  away  snugly  in  their 
blankets  and  sheltered  from  the  rain,  Helen  remained 
awake  after  Bo  had  fallen  asleep.  The  big  blaze  made 
the  improvised  tent  as  bright  as  day.  She  could  see  the 
smoke,  the  trunk  of  the  big  pine  towering  aloft,  and  a 
blank  space  of  sky.  The  stream  hummed  a  song,  seem- 
ingly musical  at  times,  and  then  discordant  and  dull,  now 
low,  now  roaring,  and  always  rushing,  gurgling,  babbling, 
flowing,  chafing  in  its  hurry. 

Presently  the  hunter  and  his  friend  returned  from  hob- 
bling the  horses,  and  beside  the  fire  they  conversed  in  low 
tones. 

"Wai,  thet  trail  we  made  to-day  will  be  hid,  I  reckon," 
said  Roy,  with  satisfaction. 

"What  wasn't  sheeped  over  would  be  washed  out. 
We've  had  luck.  An'  now  I  ain't  worryin',"  returned 
Dale. 

"Worryin'?  Then  it's  the  first  I  ever  knowed  you 
to  do." 

"Man,  I  never  had  a  job  like  this,"  protested  the 
hunter. 

"Wai,  thet'sso." 

"Now,  Roy,  when  old  Al  Auchincloss  finds  out  about 
this  deal,  as  he's  bound  to  when  you  or  the  boys  get  back 
to  Pine,  he's  goin'  to  roar." 

"Do  you  reckon  folks  will  side  with  him  against 
Beasley?" 

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THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"Some  of  them.  But  Al,  like  as  not,  will  tell  folks  to 
go  where  it's  hot.  He'll  bunch  his  men  an'  strike  for  the 
mountains  to  find  his  nieces." 

"Wai,  all  you've  got  to  do  is  to  keep  the  girls  hid  till  I 
can  guide  him  up  to  your  camp.  Or,  failin'  thet,  till  you 
can  slip  the  girls  down  to  Pine." 

"No  one  but  you  an*  your  brothers  ever  seen  my 
senaca.  But  it  could  be  found  easy  enough." 

"  Anson  might  blunder  on  it.    But  thet  ain't  likely." 

"Why  ain't  it?" 

"Because  I'll  stick  to  thet  sheep-thief's  tracks  like  a 
wolf  after  a  bleedin'  deer.  An'  if  he  ever  gets  near  your 
camp  I'll  ride  in  ahead  of  him." 

"Good!"  declared  Dale.  "I  was  calculatin'  you'd  go 
down  to  Pine,  sooner  or  later." 

"  Not  unless  Anson  goes.  I  told  John  thet  in  case  there 
was  no  fight  on  the  stage  to  make  a  bee-line  back  to  Pine. 
He  was  to  tell  Al  an'  offer  his  services  along  with  Joe  an* 
Hal." 

"One  way  or  another,  then,  there s  bound  to  be  blood 
spilled  over  this." 

"Shore!  An'  high  time.  I  jest  hope  I  get  a  look  down 
my  old  'forty-four'  at  thet  Beasley." 

"In  that  case  I  hope  you  hold  straighter  than  times 
I've  seen  you." 

"Milt  Dale,  I'm  a  good  shot,"  declared  Roy,  stoutly. 

"You're  no  good  on  movin'  targets." 

"Wai,  mebbe  so.  But  I'm  not  lookin'  for  a  movin'  tar- 
get when  I  meet  up  with  Beasley.  I'm  a  hossman,  not  a 
hunter.  You're  used  to  shootin'  flies  off  deer's  horns, 
jest  for  practice." 

"Roy,  can  we  make  my  camp  by  to-morrow  night?" 
queried  Dale,  more  seriously. 

"We  will,  if  each  of  us  has  to  carry  one  of  the  girls. 
But  they'll  do  it  or  die.  Dale,  did  you  ever  see  a  gamer 
girl  than  thet  kid  Bo?" 

"Me!    Where'd  I  ever  see  any  girls?"  ejaculated  Dale. 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"  I  remember  some  when  I  was  a  boy,  but  I  was  only  four- 
teen then.  Never  had  much  use  for  girls." 

"I'd  like  to  have  a  wife  like  that  Bo,"  declared  Roy, 
fervidly. 

There  ensued  a  moment's  silence. 

"Roy,  you're  a  Mormon  an'  you  already  got  a  wife," 
was  Dale's  reply. 

"Now,  Milt,  have  you  lived  so  long  in  the  woods  thet 
you  never  heard  of  a  Mormon  with  two  wives?"  returned 
Roy,  and  then  he  laughed  heartily. 

"I  never  could  stomach  what  I  did  hear  pertainin'  to 
more  than  one  wife  for  a  man." 

"Wai,  my  friend,  you  go  an'  get  yourself  one.  An'  see 
then  if  you  wouldn't  like  to  have  two." 

"I  reckon  one  'd  be  more  than  enough  for  Milt  Dale." 

"  Milt,  old  man,  let  me  tell  you  thet  I  always  envied  you 
your  freedom,"  said  Roy,  earnestly.  "But  it  ain't  life." 

"You  mean  life  is  love  of  a  woman?" 

"No.  Thet's  only  part.  I  mean  a  son — a  boy  thef's 
like  you — thet  you  feel  will  go  on  with  your  life  after, 
you're  gone." 

"I've  thought  of  that — thought  it  all  out,  watchin'  the 
birds  an'  animals  mate  in  the  woods.  ...  If  I  have  no  son 
I'll  never  live  hereafter."  ^ 

"Wai,"  replied  Roy,  hesitatingly,  "I  don't  go  in  so 
'deep  as  thet.  I  mean  a  son  goes  on  with  your  blood  an' 
your  work." 

"Exactly.  .  .  .  An',  Roy,  I  envy  you  what  you've  got, 
because  it's  out  of  all  bounds  for  Milt  Dale." 

Those  words,  sad  and  deep,  ended  the  conversation. 
Again  the  rumbling,  rushing  stream  dominated  the  forest. 
An  owl  hooted  dismally.  A  horse  trod  thuddingly  near  by 
and  from  that  direction  came  a  cutting  tear  of  teeth  on 
grass. 

A  voice  pierced  Helen's  deep  dreams  and,  awakingr 
found  Bo  shaking  and  calling  her. 

99 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"Are  you  dead?"  came  the  gay  voice. 

"  Almost.  Oh,  my  back's  broken,"  replied  Helen.  The 
desire  to  move  seemed  clamped  in  a  vise,  and  even  if  that 
came  she  believed  the  effort  would  be  impossible. 

"  Roy  called  us,"  said  Bo.  "  He  said  hurry.  I  thought 
I'd  die  just  sitting  up,  and  I'd  give  you  a  million  dollars 
to  lace  my  boots.  Wait,  sister,  till  you  try  to  pull  on  one 
of  those  stiff  boots!" 

With  heroic  and  violent  spirit  Helen  sat  up  to  find  that 
in  the  act  her  aches  and  pains  appeared  beyond  number. 
Reaching  for  her  boots,  she  found  them  cold  and  stiff. 
Helen  unlaced  one  and,  opening  it  wide,  essayed  to  get 
her  sore  foot  down  into  it.  But  her  foot  appeared  swollen 
and  the  boot  appeared  shrunken.  She  could  not  get  it 
half  on,  though  she  expended  what  little  strength  seemed 
left  in  her  aching  arms.  She  groaned. 

Bo  laughed  wickedly.  Her  hair  was  tousled,  her  eyes 
dancing,  her  cheeks  red. 

"Be  game!"  she  said.  "Stand  up  like  a  real  Western 
girl  and  pull  your  boot  on." 

Whether  Bo's  scorn  or  advice  made  the  task  easier  did 
not  occur  to  Helen,  but  the  fact  was  that  she  got  into 
her  boots.  Walking  and  moving  a  little  appeared  to 
loosen  the  stiff  joints  and  ease  that  tired  feeling.  The 
water  of  the  stream  where  the  girls  washed  was  colder 
than  any  ice  Helen  had  ever  felt.  It  almost  paralyzed 
her  hands.  Bo  mumbled,  and  blew  like  a  porpoise.  They 
had  to  ran  to  the  fire  before  being  able  to  comb  their  hair. 
The  air  was  wonderfully  keen.  The  dawn  was  clear, 
bright,  with  a  red  glow  in  the  east  where  the  sun  was 
about  to  rise. 

"All  ready,  girls,"  called  Roy.  "Reckon  you  can  help 
yourselves.  Milt  ain't  comin'  in  very  fast  with  the  hosses. 
I'll  rustle  off  to  help  him.  We've  got  a  hard  day  before 
us.  Yesterday  wasn't  nowhere  to  what  to-day  '11  be." 

"But  the  sun's  going  to  shine?"  implored  Bo. 

"Wai,  you  bet,"  rejoined  Roy,  as  he  strode  off. 

100 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Helen  and  Bo  ate  breakfast  and  had  the  camp  to  them- 
selves for  perhaps  half  an  hour;  then  the  horses  came 
thudding  down,  with  Dale  and  Roy  riding  bareback. 

By  the  time  all  was  in  readiness  to  start  the  sun  was  up, 
melting  the  frost  and  ice,  so  that  a  dazzling,  bright  mist, 
full  of  rainbows,  shone  under  the  trees. 

Dale  looked  Ranger  over,  and  tried  the  cinches  of  Bo's 
horse. 

"What's  your  choice — a  long  ride  behind  the  packs 
with  me — or  a  short  cut  over  the  hills  with  Roy  ? "  he  asked. 

"I  choose  the  lesser  of  two  rides,"  replied  Helen, 
smiling. 

"Reckon  that  '11  be  easier,  but  you'll  know  you've  had 
a  ride,"  said  Dale,  significantly. 

"What  was  that  we  had  yesterday?"  asked  Bo,  archly. 

"Only  thirty  miles,  but  cold  an'  wet.  To-day  will  be 
fine  for  ridin'." 

"Milt,  I'll  take  a  blanket  an*  some  grub  in  case  you 
don't  meet  us  to-night,"  said  Roy.  "An'  I  reckon  we'll 
split  up  here  where  I'll  have  to  strike  out  on  thet  short 
cut." 

Bo  mounted  without  a  helping  hand,  but  Helen's  limbs 
were  so  stiff  that  she  could  not  get  astride  the  high  Ranger 
without  assistance.  The  hunter  headed  up  the  slope  of 
the  canon,  which  on  that  side  was  not  steep.  It  was 
brown  pine  forest,  with  here  and  there  a  clump  of  dark, 
silver-pointed  evergreens  that  Roy  called  spruce.  By  the 
time  this  slope  was  surmounted  Helen's  aches  were  not 
so  bad.  The  saddle  appeared  to  fit  her  better,  and  the 
gait  of  the  horse  was  not  so  unfamiliar.  She  reflected, 
however,  that  she  always  had  done  pretty  well  uphill. 
Here  it  was  beautiful  forest-land,  uneven  and  wilder. 
They  rode  for  a  time  along  the  rim,  with  the  white  rush- 
ing stream  in  plain  sight  far  below,  with  its  melodious 
roar  ever  thrumming  in  the  ear. 

Dale  reined  in  and  peered  down  at  the  pine-mat. 

"Fresh  deer  sign  all  along  here,"  he  said,  pointing, 

101 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Wai,  I  seen  thet  long  ago,"  rejoined  Roy. 

Helen's  scrutiny  was  rewarded  by  descrying  several 
tiny  depressions  in  the  pine-needles,  dark  in  color  and 
sharply  defined. 

"We  may  never  get  a  better  chance,"  said  Dale.  "  Those 
deer  are  workin'  up  our  way.  Get  your  rifle  out . ' ' 

Travel  was  resumed  then,  with  Roy  a  little  in  advance 
of  the  pack-train.  Presently  he  dismounted,  threw  his 
bridle,  and  cautiously  peered  ahead.  Then,  turning,  he 
waved  his  sombrero.  The  pack-animals  halted  in  a 
bunch.  Dale  beckoned  for  the  girls  to  follow  and  rode 
up  to  Roy's  horse.  This  point,  Helen  saw,  was  at  the  top 
of  an  intersecting  canon.  Dale  dismounted,  without  draw- 
Ihg  his  rifle  from  its  saddle-sheath,  and  approached  Roy. 

"Buck  an'  two  does,"  he  said,  low-voiced.  "An* 
they've  winded  us,  but  don't  see  us  yet.  .  .  .  Girls,  ride  up 
closer." 

Following  the  directions  indicated  by  Dale's  long  arm, 
Helen  looked  down  the  slope.  It  was  open,  with  tall  pines 
here  and  there,  and  clumps  of  silver  spruce,  and  aspens 
shining  like  gold  in  the  morning  sunlight.  Presently  Bo 
exclaimed:  "Oh,  look!  I  see!  I  see!"  Then  Helen's 
roving  glance  passed  something  different  from  green  and 
gold  and  brown.  Shifting  back  to  it  she  saw  a  magnificent 
stag,  with  noble  spreading  antlers,  standing  like  a  statue, 
his  head  up  in  alert  and  wild  posture.  His  color  was 
gray.  Beside  him  grazed  two  deer  of  slighter  and  more 
graceful  build,  without  horns. 

"It's  downhill,"  whispered  Dale.  "An*  you're  goin' 
to  overshoot." 

Then  Helen  saw  that  Roy  had  his  rifle  leveled. 

"Oh,  don't!"  she  cried. 

Dale's  remark  evidently  nettled  Roy.  He  lowered  the 
rifle. 

"Milt,  it's  me  lookin'  over  this  gun.  How  can  you 
stand  there  an'  tell  me  I'm  goin'  to  shoot  high?  I  had  a 
dead  bead  on  him." 

102 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Roy,  you  didn't  allow  for  downhill.  .  .  .  Hurry.    He 


sees  us  now." 


Roy  leveled  the  rifle  and,  taking  aim  as  before,  he  fired. 
The  buck  stood  perfectly  motionless,  as  if  he  had  indeed 
been  stone.  The  does,  however,  jumped  with  a  start, 
and  gazed  in  fright  in  every  direction. 

"Told  you!  I  seen  where  your  bullet  hit  thet  pine — 
half  a  foot  over  his  shoulder.  Try  again  an'  aim  at  his 
legs." 

Roy  now  took  a  quicker  aim  and  pulled  trigger.  A 
puff  of  dust  right  at  the  feet  of  the  buck  showed  where 
Roy's  lead  had  struck  this  time.  With  a  single  bound, 
wonderful  to  see,  the  big  deer  was  out  of  sight  behind 
trees  and  brush.  The  does  leaped  after  him. 

"Doggone  the  luck!"  ejaculated  Roy,  red  in  the  face, 
as  he  worked  the  lever  of  his  rifle.  "Never  could  shoot 
downhill,  nohow!" 

His  rueful  apology  to  the  girls  for  missing  brought  a 
merry  laugh  from  Bo. 

"Not  for  worlds  would  I  have  had  you  kill  that  beauti- 
ful deer!"  she  exclaimed. 

"We  won't  have  venison  steak  off  him,  that's  certain," 
remarked  Dale,  dryly.  "An'  maybe  none  off  any  deer, 
if  Roy  does  the  shootin'." 

They  resumed  travel,  sheering  off  to  the  right  and 
keeping  to  the  edge  of  the  intersecting  canon.  At  length 
they  rode  down  to  the  bottom,  where  a  tiny  brook  babbled 
through  willows,  and  they  followed  this  for  a  mile  or  so 
down  to  where  it  flowed  into  the  larger  stream.  A  dim 
trail  overgrown  with  grass  showed  at  this  point. 

"Here's  where  we  part,"  said  Dale.  "You'll  beat  me 
into  my  camp,  but  I'll  get  there  sometime  after  dark." 

"Hey,  Milt,  I  forgot  about  thet  darned  pet  cougar  of 
yours  an'  the  rest  of  your  menagerie.  Reckon  they  won't 
scare  the  girls?  Especially  old  Tom?" 

"You  won't  see  Tom  till  I  get  home,"  replied  Dale. 

"Ain't  he  corralled  or  tied  up?" 

103 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"No.     He  has  the  run  of  the  place." 

"Wai,  good-by,  then,  an*  rustle  along." 

Dale  nodded  to  the  girls,  and,  turning  his  horse,  he 
drove  the  pack-train  before  him  up  the  open  space  between 
the  stream  and  the  wooded  slope. 

Roy  stepped  off  his  horse  with  that  single  action  which 
appeared  such  a  feat  to  Helen. 

"  Guess  I'd  better  cinch  up,"  he  said,  as  he  threw  a 
stirrup  up  over  the  pommel  of  his  saddle.  "You  girls 
are  goin'  to  see  wild  country." 

"Who's  old  Tom?"  queried  Bo,  curiously. 

"Why,  he's  Milt's  pet  cougar." 

"Cougar?  That's  a  panther — a  mountain-lion,  didn't 
he  say?" 

"Shore  is.  Tom  is  a  beauty.  An'  if  he  takes  a  likin* 
to  you  he'll  love  you,  play  with  you,  maul  you  half  to 
death." 

Bo  was  all  eyes. 

"Dale  has  other  pets,  too?"  she  questioned,  eagerly. 

"I  never  was  up  to  his  camp  but  what  it  was  overrun 
with  birds  an'  squirrels  an'  vermin  of  all  kinds,  as  tame — 
as  tame  as  cows.  Too  darn  tame,  Milt  says.  But  I 
can't  figger  thet.  You  girls  will  never  want  to  leave  thet 
senaca  of  his." 

"What's  a  senaca?"  asked  Helen,  as  she  shifted  her 
foot  to  let  him  tighten  the  cinches  on  her  saddle. 

"  Thet's  Mexican  for  park,  I  guess,"  he  replied.  "  These 
mountains  are  full  of  parks;  an',  say,  I  don't  ever  want 
to  see  no  prettier  place  till  I  get  to  heaven.  .  .  .  There, 
Ranger,  old  boy,  thet's  tight." 

He  slapped  the  horse  affectionately,  and,  turning  to  his 
own,  he  stepped  and  swung  his  long  length  up. 

"It  ain't  deep  crossin'  here.  Come  on,"  he  called,  and 
spurred  his  bay. 

The  stream  here  was  wide  and  it  looked  deep,  but  turned 
out  to  be  deceptive. 

"Wai,  girls,  here  beginneth  the  second  lesson,"  he 

104 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

drawled,  cheerily.  "Ride  one  behind  the  other — stick 
close  to  me — do  what  I  do — an'  holler  when  you  want  to 
rest  or  if  somethin'  goes  bad." 

With  that  he  spurred  into  the  thicket.  Bo  went  next 
and  Helen  followed.  The  willows  dragged  at  her  so  hard 
that  she  was  unable  to  watch  Roy,  and  the  result  was  that 
a  low-sweeping  branch  of  a  tree  knocked  her  hard  on  the 
head.  It  hurt  and  startled  her,  and  roused  her  mettle. 
Roy  was  keeping  to  the  easy  trot  that  covered  ground  so 
well,  and  he  led  up  a  slope  to  the  open  pine  forest.  Here 
the  ride  for  several  miles  was  straight,  level,  and  open. 
Helen  liked  the  forest  to-day.  It  was  brown  and  green, 
with  patches  of  gold  where  the  sun  struck.  She  saw  her 
first  birds — big  blue  grouse  that  whirred  up  from  under 
her  horse,  and  little  checkered  gray  quail  that  appeared 
awkward  on  the  wing.  Several  times  Roy  pointed  out 
deer  flashing  gray  across  some  forest  aisle,  and  often 
when  he  pointed  Helen  was  not  quick  enough  to  see. 

Helen  realized  that  this  ride  would  make  up  for  the 
hideous  one  of  yesterday.  So  far  she  had  been  only  barely 
conscious  of  sore  places  and  aching  bones.  These  she 
would  bear  with.  She  loved  the  wild  and  the  beautiful, 
both  of  which  increased  manifestly  with  every  mile.  The 
sun  was  warm,  the  air  fragrant  and  cool,  the  sky  blue  as 
azure  and  so  deep  that  she  imagined  that  she  could  look 
far  up  into  it. 

Suddenly  Roy  reined  in  so  sharply  that  he  pulled  the 
bay  up  short. 

"Look!"  he  called,  sharply. 

Bo  screamed. 

"Not  thet  way!    Here!    Aw,  he's  gone!" 

"Nell!  It  was  a  bear!  I  saw  it!  Oh!  not  like  circus 
<6ears  at  all!"  cried  Bo. 

Helen  had  missed  her  opportunity. 

"Reckon  he  was  a  grizzly,  an'  I'm  jest  as  well  pleased 
thet  he  loped  off,"  said  Roy.  Altering  his  course  some- 
what, he  led  to  an  old  rotten  log  that  the  bear  had  been 
8  105 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

digging  in.  "After  grubs.  There,  see  his  track.  Eh 
was  a  whopper  shore  enough." 

They  rode  on,  out  to  a  high  point  that  overlooked 
canon  and  range,  gorge  and  ridge,  green  and  black  as  far 
as  Helen  could  see.  The  ranges  were  bold  and  long, 
climbing  to  the  central  uplift,  where  a  number  of  fringed 
peaks  raised  their  heads  to  the  vast  bare  dome  of  Old 
Baldy.  Far  as  vision  could  see,  to  the  right  lay  one  roll- 
ing forest  of  pine,  beautiful  and  serene.  Somewhere  down 
beyond  must  have  lain  the  desert,  but  it  was  not  in  sight. 

"I  see  turkeys  'way  down  there,"  said  Roy,  backing 
away.  "We'll  go  down  and  around  an'  mebbe  I'll  get  a 
shot." 

Descent  beyond  a  rocky  point  was  made  through  thick 
brush.  This  slope  consisted  of  wide  benches  covered 
with  copses  and  scattered  pines  and  many  oaks.  Helen 
was  delighted  to  see  the  familiar  trees,  although  these 
were  different  from  Missouri  oaks.  Rugged  and  gnarled, 
but  not  tall,  these  trees  spread  wide  branches,  the  leaves 
of  which  were  yellowing.  Roy  led  into  a  grassy 
glade,  and,  leaping  off  his  horse,  rifle  in  hand,  he  prepared 
to  shoot  at  something.  Again  Bo  cried  out,  but  this  time 
it  was  in  delight.  Then  Helen  saw  an  immense  flock  of 
turkeys,  apparently  like  the  turkeys  she  knew  at  home, 
but  these  had  bronze  and  checks  of  white,  and  they  looked 
wild.  There  must  have  been  a  hundred  in  the  flock,  most 
of  them  hens.  A  few  gobblers  on  the  far  side  began  the 
flight,  running  swiftly  off.  Helen  plainly  heard  the  thud 
of  their  feet.  Roy  shot  once — twice — three  times.  Then 
rose  a  great  commotion  and  thumping,  and  a  loud  roar  of 
many  wings.  Dust  and  leaves  whirling  in  the  air  were 
left  where  the  turkeys  had  been. 

"Wai,  I  got  two,"  said  Roy,  and  he  strode  forward  to 
pick  up  his  game.  Returning,  he  tied  two  shiny,  plump 
gobblers  back  of  his  saddle  and  remounted  his  horse. 
"We'll  have  turkey  to-night,  if  Milt  gets  to  camp  in 

time." 

106 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

The  ride  was  resumed.  Helen  never  would  have  tired 
tiding  through  those  oak  groves,  brown  and  sear  and 
yellow,  with  leaves  and  acorns  falling. 

"Bears  have  been  workin'  in  here  already,"  said  Roy. 
"  I  see  tracks  all  over.  They  eat  acorns  in  the  fall.  An' 
tnebbe  we'll  run  into  one  yet." 

The  farther  down  he  led  the  wilder  and  thicker  grew 
the  trees,  so  that  dodging  branches  was  no  light  task. 
Ranger  did  not  seem  to  care  how  close  he  passed  a  tree  or 
under  a  limb,  so  that  he  missed  them  himself;  but  Helen 
thereby  got  some  additional  bruises.  Particularly  hard 
was  it,  when  passing  a  tree,  to  get  her  knee  out  of  the  way 
in  time. 

Roy  halted  next  at  what  appeared  a  large  green  pond 
full  of  vegetation  and  in  places  covered  with  a  thick  scum. 
But  it  had  a  current  and  an  outlet,  proving  it  to  be  a  huge 
spring.  Roy  pointed  down  at  a  muddy  place. 

"Bear- wallow.  He  heard  us  comin'.  Look  at  thet 
little  track.  Cub  track.  An'  look  at  these  scratches  on 
this  tree,  higher  'n  my  head.  An  old  she-bear  stood  up 
an'  scratched  them." 

Roy  sat  his  saddle  and  reached  up  to  touch  fresh  marks 
on  the  tree. 

"Woods  's  full  of  big  bears,"  he  said,  grinning.  "An' 
I  take  it  particular  kind  of  this  old  she  rustlin'  off  with 
her  cub.  She-bears  with  cubs  are  dangerous." 

The  next  place  to  stir  Helen  to  enthusiasm  was  the  glen 
at  the  bottom  of  this  canon.  Beech-trees,  maples,  aspens, 
overtopped  by  lofty  pines,  made  dense  shade  over  a  brook 
where  trout  splashed  on  the  brown,  swirling  current,  and 
leaves  drifted  down,  and  stray  flecks  of  golden  sunlight 
lightened  the  gloom.  Here  was  hard  riding  to  and  fro 
across  the  brook,  between  huge  mossy  boulders,  and 
between  aspens  so  close  together  that  Helen  could  scarce 
squeeze  her  knees  through. 

Once  more  Roy  climbed  out  of  that  canon,  over  a  ridge 
into  another,  down  long  wooded  slopes  and  through  scrub" 

107 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

oak  thickets,  on  and  on  till  the  sun  stood  straight  over- 
head. Then  he  halted  for  a  short  rest,  unsaddled  the 
horses  to  let  them  roll,  and  gave  the  girls  some  cold 
lunch  that  he  had  packed.  He  strolled  off  with  his 
gun,  and,  upon  returning,  resaddled  and  gave  the  word 
to  start. 

That  was  the  last  of  rest  and  easy  traveling  for  the  girls. 
The  forest  that  he  struck  into  seemed  ribbed  like  a  wash- 
board with  deep  ravines  so  steep  of  slope  as  to  make 
precarious  travel.  Mostly  he  kept  to  the  bottom  where 
dry  washes  afforded  a  kind  of  trail.  But  it  was  necessary 
to  cross  these  ravines  when  they  were  too  long  to  be 
headed,  and  this  crossing  was  work. 

The  locust  thickets  characteristic  of  these  slopes  were 
thorny  and  close  knit.  They  tore  and  scratched  and 
stung  both  horses  and  riders.  Ranger  appeared  to  be  the 
most  intelligent  of  the  horses  and  suffered  less.  Bo's 
white  mustang  dragged  her  through  more  than  one 
brambly  place.  On  the  other  hand,  some  of  these  steep 
slopes  were  comparatively  free  of  underbrush.  Great  firs 
and  pines  loomed  up  on  all  sides.  The  earth  was  soft  and 
the  hoofs  sank  deep.  Toward  the  bottom  of  a  descent 
Ranger  would  brace  his  front  feet  and  then  slide  down  on 
his  haunches.  This  mode  facilitated  travel,  but  it  fright- 
ened Helen.  The  climb  out  then  on  the  other  side  had 
to  be  done  on  foot. 

After  half  a  dozen  slopes  surmounted  in  this  way  Helen's 
strength  was  spent  and  her  breath  was  gone.  She  felt 
light-headed.  She  could  not  get  enough  air.  Her  feet 
felt  like  lead,  and  her  riding-coat  was  a  burden.  A  hun- 
dred times,  hot  and  wet  and  throbbing,  she  was  com- 
pelled to  stop.  Always  she  had  been  a  splendid  walker 
and  climber.  And  here,  to  break  up  the  long  ride,  she 
was  glad  to  be  on  her  feet.  But  she  could  only  drag  one 
foot  up  after  the  other.  Then,  when  her  nose  began  to 
bleed,  she  realized  that  it  was  the  elevation  which  was 

causing  all  the  trouble.    Her  heart,  however,  did  not  hurt 

1 08 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

her,  though  she  was  conscious  of  an  oppression  on  her 
breast. 

At  last  Roy  led  into  a  ravine  so  deep  and  wide  and  full 
of  forest  verdure  that  it  appeared  impossible  to  cross. 
Nevertheless,  he  started  down,  dismounting  after  a  littla 
way.  Helen  found  that  leading  Ranger  down  was  worse 
than  riding  him.  He  came  fast  and  he  would  step  right 
in  her  tracks.  She  was  not  quick  enough  to  get  away 
from  him.  Twice  he  stepped  on  her  foot,  and  again  his 
broad  chest  hit  her  shoulder  and  threw  her  flat.  When 
he  began  to  slide,  near  the  bottom,  Helen  had  to  run  for 
her  life. 

"Oh,  Nell!  Isn't— this— great?  "panted  Bo,  from  some- 
where ahead. 

"Bo — your — mind's — gone,"  panted  Helen,  in  reply. 

Roy  tried  several  places  to  climb  out,  and  failed  in  each. 
Leading  down  the  ravine  for  a  hundred  yards  or  more,  he 
essayed  another  attempt.  Here  there  had  been  a  slide, 
and  in  part  the  earth  was  bare.  When  he  had  worked  up 
this,  he  halted  above,  and  called: 

"Bad  place!    Keep  on  the  up  side  of  the  hosses!" 

This  appeared  easier  said  than  done.  Helen  could  not 
watch  Bo,  because  Ranger  would  not  wait.  He  pulled 
at  the  bridle  and  snorted. 

"Faster  you  come  the  better,"  called  Roy. 

Helen  could  not  see  the  sense  of  that,  but  she  tried. 
Roy  and  Bo  had  dug  a  deep  trail  zigzag  up  that  treacher* 
ous  slide.  Helen  made  the  mistake  of  starting  to  follow 
in  their  tracks,  and  when  she  realized  this  Ranger  was 
climbing  fast,  almost  dragging  her,  and  it  was  too  late  to 
get  above.  Helen  began  to  labor.  She  slid  down  right 
in  front  of  Ranger.  The  intelligent  animal,  with  a  snort, 
plunged  out  of  the  trail  to  keep  from  stepping  on  her. 
Then  he  was  above  her. 

"Look  out  down  there,"  yelled  Roy,  in  warning.  "Get 
on  the  up  side!" 

But  that  did  not  appear  possible.  The  earth  began  to 

109 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

under  Ranger,  and  that  impeded  Helen's  progress 
He  got  in  advance  of  her,  straining  on  the  bridle. 

"Let  go!"  yelled  Roy. 

Helen  dropped  the  bridle  just  as  a  heavy  slide  began  to 
move  with  Ranger.  He  snorted  fiercely,  and ,  rearing  high, 
in  a  mighty  plunge  he  gained  solid  ground.  Helen  was 
buried  to  her  knees,  but,  extricating  herself,  she  crawled 
to  a  safe  point  and  rested  before  climbing  farther. 

"Bad  cav^-in,  thet,"  was  Roy's  comment,  when  at  last 
she  joined  him  and  Bo  at  the  top. 

Roy  appeared  at  a  loss  as  to  which  way  to  go.  He  rode 
to  high  ground  and  looked  in  all  directions.  To  Helen 
one  way  appeared  as  wild  and  rough  as  another,  and  all 
was  yellow,  green,  and  black  under  the  westering  sun. 
Roy  rode  a  short  distance  in  one  direction,  then  changed 
for  another. 

Presently  he  stopped. 

"Wai,  I'm  shore  turned  round,"  he  said. 

"You're  not  lost?"  cried  Bo. 

"Reckon  I've  been  thet  for  a  couple  of  hours,"  he  re- 
plied, cheerfully  "Never  did  ride  across  here  I  had 
the  direction,  but  I'm  blamed  now  if  I  can  tell  which  way 
tbst  was." 

Helen  gazed  at  him  in  consternation. 

"Lost! ''she  echoed. 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  SILENCE  ensued,  fraught  with  poignant  fear  for 
Helen,  as  she  gazed  into  Bo's  whitening  face.  She 
read  her  sister's  mind.  Bo  was  remembering  tales  of  lost 
people  who  never  were  found. 

"Me  an'  Milt  get  lost  every  day,"  said  Roy.  "You 
don't  suppose  any  man  can  know  all  this  big  country.  It's 
nothin'  for  us  to  be  lost." 

"  Oh ! .    .1  was  lost  when  I  was  little,"  said  Bo. 

"Wai,  I  reckon  it  'd  been  better  not  to  tell  you  so  off- 
hand like,"  replied  Roy,  contritely.  "Don't  feel  bad, 
now.  All  I  need  is  a  peek  at  Old  Baldy.  Then  I'll  have 
my  bearin*.  Come  on." 

Helen's  confidence  returned  as  Roy  led  off  at  a  fast  trot. 
He  rode  toward  the  westering  sun,  keeping  to  the  ridge 
they  had  ascended,  until  once  more  he  came  out  upon  a 
promontory.  Old  Baldy  loomed  there,  blacker  and  higher 
and  closer.  The  dark  forest  showed  round,  yellow,  bare 
spots  like  parks. 

"Not  so  far  off  the  track,"  said  Roy,  as  he  wheeled  his 
horse.  "We'll  make  camp  in  Milt's  senaca  to-night." 

He  led  down  off  the  ridge  into  a  valley  and  then  up  to 
higher  altitude,  where  the  character  of  the  forest  changed. 
The  trees  were  no  longer  pines,  but  firs  and  spruce,  grow- 
ing thin  and  exceedingly  tall,  with  few  branches  below 
the  topmost  foliage.  So  dense  was  this  forest  that  twi- 
light seemed  to  have  come. 

Travel  was  arduous.  Everywhere  were  windfalls  that 
had  to  be  avoided,  and  not  a  rod  was  there  without  a 
{alien  tree.  The  horses,  laboring  slowly,  sometimes  sanl* 

in 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

knee-deep  into  the  brown  duff.  Gray  moss  festooned  the 
tree-trunks  and  an  amber-green  moss  grew  thick  on  the 
rotting  logs. 

Helen  loved  this  forest  primeval.  It  was  so  still,  so 
dark,  so  gloomy,  so  full  of  shadows  and  shade,  and  a  dank 
smell  of  rotting  wood,  and  sweet  fragrance  of  spruce. 
The  great  windfalls,  where  trees  were  jammed  together 
in  dozens,  showed  the  savagery  of  the  storms.  Wherever 
a  single  monarch  lay  uprooted  there  had  sprung  up  a 
number  of  ambitious  sons,  jealous  of  one  another,  fighting 
for  place.  Even  the  trees  fought  one  another  1  The  forest 
was  a  place  of  mystery,  but  its  strife  could  be  read  by  any 
eye.  The  lightnings  had  split  firs  clear  to  the  roots,  and 
others  it  had  circled  with  ripping  tear  from  top  to  trunk. 

Time  came,  however,  when  the  exceeding  wildness  of 
the  forest,  in  density  and  fallen  timber,  made  it  impera- 
tive for  Helen  to  put  all  her  attention  on  the  ground  and 
trees  in  her  immediate  vicinity.  So  the  pleasure  of  gaz- 
ing ahead  at  the  beautiful  wilderness  was  denied  her. 
Thereafter  travel  became  toil  and  the  hours  endless. 

Roy  led  on,  and  Ranger  followed,  while  the  shadows 
darkened  under  the  trees.  She  was  reeling  in  her  saddle, 
half  blind  and  sick,  when  Roy  called  out  cheerily  that  they 
*rere  almost  there. 

Whatever  his  idea  was,  to  Helen  it  seemed  many  miles 
that  she  followed  him  farther,  out  of  the  heavy-timbered 
forest  down  upon  slopes  of  low  spruce,  like  evergreen, 
which  descended  sharply  to  another  level,  w^here  dark, 
shallow  streams  flowed  gently  and  the  solemn  stillness 
held  a  low  murmur  of  falling  water,  and  at  last  the  wood 
ended  upon  a  wonderful  park  full  of  a  thick,  rich,  golden 
light  of  fast-fading  sunset. 

"Smell  the  smoke,"  said  Roy.  "By  Solomon!  if  Milt 
ain't  here  ahead  of  me!" 

He  rode  on.  Helen's  weary  gaze  took  in  the  round 
senaca,  the  circling  black  slopes,  leading  up  to  craggy 
rims  all  gold  and  red  in  the  last  flare  of  the  sun;  then  all- 

112 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

the  spirit  left  in  her  flashed  up  in  thrilling  wonder  at  this 
exquisite,  wild,  and  colorful  spot. 

Horses  were  grazing  out  in  the  long  grass  and  there  were 
deer  grazing  with  them.  Roy  led  round  a  corner  of  the 
fringed,  bordering  woodland,  and  there,  under  lofty  trees, 
shone  a  camp-fire.  Huge  gray  rocks  loomed  beyond,  and 
then  cliffs  rose  step  by  step  to  a  notch  in  the  mountain 
wall,  over  which  poured  a  thin,  lacy  waterfall.  As  Helen 
gazed  in  rapture  the  sunset  gold  faded  to  white  and  all 
the  western  slope  of  the  amphitheater  darkened. 

Dale's  tall  form  appeared. 

"Reckon  you're  late,"  he  said,  as  with  a  comprehensive 
flash  of  eye  he  took  in  the  three. 

"Milt,  I  got  lost,"  replied  Roy. 

"  I  feared  as  much.  .  .  .  You  girls  look  like  you'd  done 
better  to  ride  with  me,"  went  on  Dale,  as  he  offered  a 
hand  to  help  Bo  off.  She  took  it,  tried  to  get  her  foot 
out  of  the  stirrups,  and  then  she  slid  from  the  saddle  into 
Dale's  arms.  He  placed  her  on  her  feet  and,  supporting 
her,  said,  solicitously:  "A  hundred-mile  ride  in  three 
days  for  a  tenderfoot  is  somethin'  your  uncle  Al  won't 
believe.  .  .  .  Come,  walk  if  it  kills  you!" 

Whereupon  he  led  Bo,  very  much  as  if  he  were  teaching 
a  child  to  walk.  The  fact  that  the  voluble  Bo  had  noth- 
ing to  say  was  significant  to  Helen,  who  was  following 
with  the  assistance  of  Roy. 

One  of  the  huge  rocks  resembled  a  sea-shell  in  that  it 
contained  a  hollow  over  which  the  wide-spreading  shelf 
flared  out.  It  reached  toward  branches  of  great  pines. 
A  spring  burst  from  a  crack  in  the  solid  rock.  The  camp- 
fire  blazed  under  a  pine,  and  the  blue  column  of  smoke 
rose  just  in  front  of  the  shelving  rock.  Packs  were  lying 
on  the  grass  and  some  of  them  were  open.  There  were 
no  signs  here  of  a  permanent  habitation  of  the  hunter, 
But  farther  on  were  other  huge  rocks,  leaning,  cracked, 
and  forming  caverns,  some  of  which  perhaps  he  utilized. 

"My  camp  is  just  back,"  said  Dale,  as  if  he  had  read 

"3 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Helen's  mind.  "Tomorrow  we'll  fix  up  comfortable-like 
round  here  for  you  girls." 

Helen  and  Bo  were  made  as  easy  as  blankets  and 
saddles  could  make  them,  and  the  men  went  about  their 
tasks. 

"Nell — isn't  this — a  dream?"  murmured  Bo. 

"No,  child.  It's  real— terribly  real,"  replied  Helen. 
"Now  that  we're  here — with  that  awful  ride  over — we 
can  think." 

"It's  so  pretty— here,"  yawned  Bo.  "I'd  just  as  lief 
Uncle  Al  didn't  find  us  very  soon." 

"Bo!  He's  a  sick  man.  Think  what  the  worry  will 
be  to  him." 

"I'll  bet  if  he  knows  Dale  he  won't  be  so  worried." 

"  Dale  told  us  Uncle  Al  disliked  him." 

"Pooh!  What  difference  does  that  make?  ...  Oh,  I 
don't  know  which  I  am — hungrier  or  tireder!" 

"I  couldn't  eat  to-night,"  said  Helen,  wearily. 

When  she  stretched  out  she  had  a  vague,  delicious  sen- 
iSation  that  that  was  the  end  of  Helen  Rayner,  and  she 
was  glad.  Above  her,  through  the  lacy,  fernlike  pine- 
needles,  she  saw  blue  sky  and  a  pale  star  just  showing. 
Twilight  was  stealing  down  swiftly.  The  silence  was 
beautiful,  seemingly  undisturbed  by  the  soft,  silky, 
dreamy  fall  of  water.  Helen  closed  her  eyes,  ready  for 
sleep,  with  the  physical  commotion  within  her  body  grad- 
ually yielding.  In  some  places  her  bones  felt  as  if  they 
had  come  out  through  her  flesh ;  in  others  throbbed  deep- 
seated  aches;  her  muscles  appeared  slowly  to  subside,  to 
relax,  with  the  quivering  twinges  ceasing  one  by  one; 
through  muscle  and  bone,  through  all  her  body,  pulsed 
a  burning  current. 

Bo's  head  dropped  on  Helen's  shoulder.  Sense  became 
vague  to  Helen.  She  lost  the  low  murmur  of  the  water- 
fall, and  then  the  sound  or  feeling  of  some  one  at  the  camp- 
fire.  And  her  last  conscious  thought  was  that  she  tried 
to  open  her  eyes  and  could  not. 

114. 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

When  she  awoke  all  was  bright.  The  sun  shone  almost 
directly  overhead.  Helen  was  astounded.  Bo  lay 
wrapped  in  deep  sleep,  her  face  flushed,  with  beads  of 
perspiration  on  her  brow  and  the  chestnut  curls  damp. 
Helen  threw  down  the  blankets,  and  then,  gathering 
courage — for  she  felt  as  if  her  back  was  broken — she  en- 
deavored to  sit  up.  In  vain!  Her  spirit  was  willing, 
but  her  muscles  refused  to  act.  It  must  take  a  violent 
spasmodic  effort.  She  tried  it  with  shut  eyes,  and, 
succeeding,  sat  there  trembling.  The  commotion  she 
had  made  in  the  blankets  awoke  Bo,  and  she  blinked  her 
surprised  blue  eyes  in  the  sunlight. 

"Hello— Nell!  do  I  have  to— get  up?"  she  asked, 
sleepily. 

"Can  you?"  queried  Helen. 

"Can  I  what?"  Bo  was  now  thoroughly  awake  and 
lay  there  staring  at  her  sister. 

"Why— get  up." 

"I'd  like  to  know  why  not,"  retorted  Bo,  as  she  made 
the  effort.  She  got  one  arm  and  shoulder  up,  only  to 
flop  back  like  a  crippled  thing.  And  she  uttered  the  most 
piteous  little  moan.  "I'm  dead !  I  know — I  am ! ' ' 

"Well,  if  you're  going  to  be  a  Western  girl  you'd  better 
have  spunk  enough  to  move." 

"A-huh!"  ejaculated  Bo.  Then  she  rolled  over,  not 
without  groans,  and,  once  upon  her  face,  she  raised  her- 
self on  her  hands  and  turned  to  a  sitting  posture.  "Where's 
everybody? .  .  .  Oh,  Nell,  it's  perfectly  lovely  here.  Para- 
dise!" 

Helen  looked  around.  A  fire  was  smoldering.  No  one 
was  in  sight.  Wonderful  distant  colors  seemed  to  strike 
her  glance  as  she  tried  to  fix  it  upon  near-by  objects.  A 
beautiful  little  green  tent  or  shack  had  been  erected  out 
of  spruce  boughs.  It  had  a  slanting  roof  that  sloped  ail 
the  way  from  a  ridge-pole  to  the  ground;  half  of  the 
opening  in  front  was  closed,  as  were  the  sides.  The 
spruce  boughs  appeared  all  to  be  laid  in  the  same  direction, 

115 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

giving  it  a  smooth,  compact  appearance,  actually  as  if  it 
had  grown  there. 

"That  lean-to  wasn't  there  last  night?''  inquired  Bo. 

"I  didn't  see  it.  Lean-to?  Where'd  you  get  that 
name?" 

"  It's  Western,  my  dear.  I'll  bet  they  put  it  up  for  us. 
.  .  .  Sure,  I  see  our  bags  inside.  Let's  get  up.  It  must  be 
late." 

The  girls  had  considerable  fun  as  well  as  pain  in  getting 
up  and  keeping  each  other  erect  until  their  limbs  would 
hold  them  firmly.  They  were  delighted  with  the  spi-uce 
lean-to.  It  faced  the  open  and  stood  just  under  the  wide- 
spreading  shelf  of  rock.  The  tiny  outlet  from  the  spring 
flowed  beside  it  and  spilled  its  clear  water  over  a  stone, 
to  fall  into  a  little  pool.  The  floor  of  this  woodland  habi- 
tation consisted  of  tips  of  spruce  boughs  to  about  a  foot 
in  depth,  all  laid  one  way,  smooth  and  springy,  and  so 
sweetly  odorous  that  the  air  seemed  intoxicating.  Helen 
and  Bo  opened  their  baggage,  and  what  with  use  of  the 
cold  water,  brush  and  comb,  and  clean  blouses,  they  made 
themselves  feel  as  comfortable  as  possible,  considering  the 
excruciating  aches.  Then  they  went  out  to  the  camp- 
fire. 

Helen's  eye  was  attracted  by  moving  objects  near  at 
hand.  Then  simultaneously  with  Bo's  cry  of  delight 
Helen  saw  a  beautiful  doe  approaching  under  the  trees. 
Dale  walked  beside  it. 

"You  sure  had  a  long  sleep,"  was  the  hunter's  greeting. 
"I  reckon  you  both  look  better." 

"Good  morning.  Or  is  it  afternoon?  We're  just  able 
to  move  about,"  said  Helen. 

"I  could  ride,"  declared  Bo,  stoutly.  "Oh,  Nell,  look 
at  the  deer!  It's  coming  to  me." 

The  doe  had  hung  back  a  little  as  Dale  reached  the 
camp-fire.  It  was  a  gray,  slender  creature,  smooth  as 
silk,  with  great  dark  eyes.  It  stood  a  moment,  long  ears 
erect,  and  then  with  a  graceful  little  trot  came  up  to  Bo 

116 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

and  reached  a  slim  nose  for  her  outstretched  hand.  All 
about  it,  except  the  beautiful  soft  eyes,  seemed  wild,  and 
yet  it  was  as  tame  as  a  kitten.  Then,  suddenly,  as  Bo 
fondled  the  long  ears,  it  gave  a  start  and,  breaking  away, 
ran  back  out  of  sight  under  the  pines. 

"What  frightened  it?"  asked  Bo. 

Dale  pointed  up  at  the  wall  under  the  shelving  roof  of 
rock.  There,  twenty  feet  from  the  ground,  curled  up  on 
a  ledge,  lay  a  huge  tawny  animal  with  a  face  like  that  of 
a  cat. 

"She's  afraid  of  Tom,"  replied  Dale.  "Recognizes  him 
as  a  hereditary  foe,  I  guess.  I  can't  make  friends  of 
them." 

"Oh!  So  that's  Tom— the  pet  lion!"  exclaimed  Bo. 
"  Ugh !  No  wonder  that  deer  ran  off ! " 

"How  long  has  he  been  up  there?"  queried  Helen,  gaz- 
ing fascinated  at  Dale's  famous  pet. 

"I  couldn't  say.  Tom  comes  an'  goes,"  replied  Dale. 
"But  I  sent  him  up  there  last  night." 

"And  he  was  there — perfectly  free — right  over  US- 
while  we  slept!"  burst  out  Bo. 

"Yes.     An'  I  reckon  you  slept  the  safer  for  that." 

"Of  all  things!  Nell,  isn't  he  a  monster?  But  ht 
doesn't  look  like  a  lion — an  African  lion.  He's  a  panther, 
I  saw  his  like  at  the  circus  once." 

" He's  a  cougar,"  said  Dale.  "The  panther  is  long  and 
slim.  Tom  is  not  only  long,  but  thick  an'  round.  I've 
had  him  four  years.  An'  he  was  a  kitten  no  bigger  'n  my 
fist  when  I  got  him." 

"Is  he  perfectly  tame — safe?"  asked  Helen,  anxiously. 

"I've  never  told  anybody  that  Tom  was  safe,  but  he 
is,"  replied  Dale.  "You  can  absolutelv  believe  it.  A 
wild  cougar  wouldn't  attack  a  man  unless  cornered  or 
starved.  An'  Tom  is  like  a  big  kitten." 

The  beast  raised  his  great  catlike  face,  with  its  sleepy, 
half -shut  eyes,  and  looked  down  upon  them. 

"Shall  I  call  him  down?"  inquired  Dale. 

117 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

For  once  Bo  did  not  find  her  voice. 

''Let  us — get  a  little  more  used  to  him — at  a  distance," 
replied  Helen,  with  a  little  laugh. 

"If  he  comes  to  you,  just  rub  his  head  an'  you'll  see 
how  tame  he  is,"  said  Dale.  "Reckon  you're  both 
hungry?" 

"Not  so  very,"  returned  Helen,  aware  of  his  penetrat- 
ing gray  gaze  upon  her. 

"Well,  I  am,"  vouchsafed  Bo. 

"Soon  as  the  turkey's  done  we'll  eat.  My  camp  is 
round  between  the  rocks.  I'll  call  you." 

Not  until  his  broad  back  was  turned  did  Helen  notice 
that  the  hunter  looked  different.  Then  she  saw  he  wore 
a  lighter,  cleaner  suit  of  buckskin,  with  no  coat,  and 
instead  of  the  high-heeled  horseman's  boots  he  wore 
moccasins  and  leggings.  The  change  made  him  appear 
more  lithe. 

"Nell,  I  don't  know  what  you  think,  but  I  call  him 
handsome,"  declared  Bo. 

Helen  had  no  idea  what  she  thought. 

"  Let's  try  to  walk  some,"  she  suggested. 

So  they  essayed  that  painful  task  and  got  as  far  as  a 
pine  log  some  few  rods  from  their  camp.  This  point  was 
close  to  the  edge  of  the  park,  from  which  there  was  an 
unobstructed  view. 

"My!  What  a  place!"  exclaimed  Bo,  with  eyes  wide 
and  round. 

"Oh,  beautiful!"  breathed  Helen. 

An  unexpected  blaze  of  color  drew  her  gaze  first.  Out 
of  the  black  spruce  slopes  shone  patches  of  aspens,  glori- 
ously red  and  gold,  and  low  down  along  the  edge  of  timber 
troops  of  aspens  ran  out  into  the  park,  not  yet  so  blazing 
as  those  above,  but  purple  and  yellow  and  white  in  the 
sunshine.  Masses  of  silver  spruce,  like  trees  in  moon- 
light, bordered  the  park,  sending  out  here  and  there  an 
isolated  tree,  sharp  as  a  spear,  with  under-branches  close 
to  the  ground.  Long  golden-green  grass,  resembling  half- 

118 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

ripe  wheat,  covered  the  entire  floor  of  the  park,  gently 
waving  to  the  wind.  Above  sheered  the  black,  gold- 
patched  slopes,  steep  and  unscalable,  rising  to  buttresses 
of  dark,  iron-hued  rock.  And  to  the  east  circled  the  rows 
of  cliff-bench,  gray  and  old  and  fringed,  splitting  at  the 
top  in  the  notch  where  the  lacy,  slumberous  waterfall,  like 
white  smoke,  fell  and  vanished,  to  reappear  in  wider  sheet 
of  lace,  only  to  fall  and  vanish  again  in  the  green  depths. 
It  was  a  verdant  valley,  deep-set  in  the  mountain  walls, 
wild  and  sad  and  lonesome.  The  waterfall  dominated 
the  spirit  of  the  place,  dreamy  and  sleepy  and  tranquil; 
it  murmured  sweetly  on  one  breath  of  wind,  and  lulled 
with  another,  and  sometimes  died  out  altogether,  only 
to  come  again  in  soft,  strange  roar. 

"Paradise  Park!"  whispered  Bo  to  herself. 
A  call  from  Dale  disturbed  their  raptures.  Turning, 
they  hobbled  with  eager  but  painful  steps  in  the  direction 
of  a  larger  camp-fire,  situated  to  the  right  of  the  great 
rock  that  sheltered  their  lean-to.  No  hut  or  house  showed 
there  and  none  was  needed.  Hiding-places  and  homes 
for  a  hundred  hunters  were  there  in  the  sections  of  caverned 
cliffs,  split  off  in  bygone  ages  from  the  mountain  wall 
above.  A  few  stately  pines  stood  out  from  the  rocks,  and 
a  clump  of  silver  spruce  ran  down  to  a  brown  brook. 
This  camp  was  only  a  step  from  the  lean-to,  round  the 
corner  of  a  huge  rock,  yet  it  had  been  out  oE  sight.  Here 
indeed  was  evidence  of  a  hunter's  home — pelts  and  skins 
and  antlers,  a  neat  pile  of  split  fire-wood,  a  long  ledge  of 
rock,  well  sheltered,  and  loaded  with  bags  like  a  huge 
pantry-shelf,  packs  and  ropes  and  saddles,  tools  and 
weapons,  and  a  platform  of  dry  brush  as  shelter  for  a  fire 
around  which  hung  on  poles  a  various  assortment  of  uten- 
sils for  camp. 

"Hyar — you  git!"  shouted  Dale,  and  he  threw  a  stick 
at  something.  A  bear  cub  scampered  away  in  haste.  He 
was  small  and  woolly  and  brown,  and  he  grunted  as  he 
ran.  Soon  he  halted. 

119 


THE  MAN  OF   THE' FOREST 

" That's  Bud,"  said  Dale,  as  the  girls  came  up.  "Guess 
he  near  starved  in  my  absence.  An'  now  he  wants  every- 
thin',  especially  the  sugar.  We  don't  have  sugar  often 
up  here." 

"Isn't  he  dear?  Oh,  I  love  him!"  cried  Bo.  "Come 
back,  Bud.  Come,  Buddie." 

The  cub,  however,  kept  his  distance,  watching  Dale 
"with  bright  little  eyes. 

"Where's  Mr.  Roy?"  asked  Helen. 

"Roy's  gone.  He  was  sorry  not  to  say  good-by.  But 
it's  important  he  gets  down  in  the  pines  on  Anson's  trail. 
He'll  hang  to  Anson,  an*  in  case  they  get  near  Pine  he'll 
ride  in  to  see  where  your  uncle  is." 

"What  do  you  expect?"  questioned  Helen,  gravely. 

"'Most  anythin',"  he  replied.  "Al,  I  reckon,  knows 
now.  Maybe  he's  rustlin'  into  the  mountains  by  this 
time.  If  he  meets  up  with  Anson,  well  an'  good,  for  Roy 
won't  be  far  off.  An'  sure  if  he  runs  across  Roy,  why 
they'll  soon  be  here.  But  if  I  were  you  I  wouldn't  count 
on  seein'  your  uncle  very  soon.  I'm  sorry.  I've  done 
my  best.  It  sure  is  a  bad  deal." 

"Don't  think  me  ungracious,"  replied  Helen,  hastily. 
How  plainly  he  had  intimated  that  it  must  be  privation 
and  annoyance  for  her  to  be  compelled  to  accept  his 
hospitality!  "You  are  good — kind.  I  owe  you  much. 
I'll  be  eternally  grateful." 

Dale  straightened  as  he  looked  at  her.  His  glance  was 
intent,  piercing.  He  seemed  to  be  receiving  a  strange  or 
unusual  portent.  No  need  for  him  to  say  he  had  never 
before  been  spoken  to  like  that! 

"You  may  have  to  stay  here  with  me — for  weeks — 
maybe  months — if  we've  the  bad  luck  to  get  snowed  in," 
he  said,  slowly,  as  if  startled  at  this  deduction.  "You're 
safe  here.  No  sheep-thief  could  ever  find  this  camp. 
I'll  take  risks  to  get  you  safe  into  Al's  hands.  But  I'm 
goin'  to  be  pretty  sure  about  what  I'm  doin'.  .  .  .  So — 
there's  plenty  to  eat  an'  it's  a  pretty  place." 

1 20 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Hetty!  Why,  it's  grand!"  exclaimed  Bo.  "I've 
calle4  it  Paradise  Park." 

"Paradise  Park,"  he  repeated,  weighing  the  words. 
"Yota've  named  it  an'  also  the  creek.  Paradise  Creek! 
I've  been  here  twelve  years  with  no  fit  name  for  my  home 
till  you  said  that." 

"Oh,  that  pleases  me!"  returned  Bo,  with  shining  eyes. 

-Eat  now,"  said  Dale.  "An'  I  reckon  you'll  like  that 
turkey." 

There  was  a  clean  tarpaulin  upon  which  were  spread 
steaming,  fragrant  pans — roast  turkey,  hot  biscuits  and 
gravy,  mashed  potatoes  as  white  as  if  prepared  at  home, 
stewed  dried  apples,  and  butter  and  coffee.  This  bounte- 
ous repast  surprised  and  delighted  the  girls;  when  they 
had  once  tasted  the  roast  wild  turkey,  then  Milt  Dale  had 
occasion  to  blush  at  their  encomiums. 

"I  hope — Uncle  Al — doesn't  come  for  a  month,"  de- 
clared Bo,  as  she  tried  to  get  her  breath.  There  was  a 
brown  spot  on  her  nose  and  one  on  each  cheek,  suspiciously 
close  to  her  mouth. 

Dale  laughed.  It  was  pleasant  to  hear  him,  for  his 
laugh  seemed  unused  and  deep,  as  if  it  came  from  tranquil 
depths. 

"Won't  you  eat  with  us?"  asked  Helen. 

"Reckon  I  will,"  he  said.  "It  '11  save  time,  an*  hot 
grub  tastes  better." 

Quite  an  interval  of  silence  ensued,  which  presently  was 
broken  by  Dale. 

"Here  comes  Tom." 

Helen  observed  with  a  thrill  that  the  cougar  was  mag- 
nificent, seen  erect  on  all-fours,  approaching  with  slow, 
sinuous  grace.  His  color  WL3  tawny,  with  spots  of  whitish 
gray.  He  had  bow-legs,  big  and  round  and  furry,  and  a 
huge  head  with  great  tawny  eyes.  No  matter  how  tame 
he  was  said  to  be,  he  looked  wild.  Like  a  dog  he  walked 
right  up,  and  it  so  happened  that  he  was  directly  behind 
Bo,  within  reach  of  her  when  she  turned. 
Q  121 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"Gh,  Lord!"  cried  Bo,  and  up  went  both  of  her  *iands, 
in  one  of  which  was  a  huge  piece  of  turkey.  Tom  took  it, 
not  viciously,  but  nevertheless  with  a  snap  that  made 
Helen  jump.  As  if  by  magic  the  turkey  vanished.  And 
Tom  took  a  closer  step  toward  Bo.  Her  expression  of 
fright  changed  to  consternation. 

"He  stole  my  turkey!'* 

"Tom,  come  here,"  ordered  Dale,  sharply.  The  cou- 
gar glided  round  rather  sheepishly.  "Now  lie  down  an* 
behave." 

Tom  crouched  on  all-fours,  his  head  resting  on  his  paws, 
with  his  beautiful  tawny  eyes,  light  and  piercing,  fixed 
upon  the  hunter. 

"Don't  grab,"  said  Dale,  holding  out  a  piece  of  turkey. 
Whereupon  Tom  took  it  less  voraciously. 

As  it  happened,  the  little  bear  cub  saw  this  transaction, 
and  he  plainly  indicated  his  opinion  of  the  preference 
shown  to  Tom. 

"Oh,  the  dear!"  exclaimed  Bo.  "He  means  it's  not 
fair.  .  .  .  Come,  Bud — come  on." 

But  Bud  would  not  approach  the  group  until  called  by 
Dale.  Then  he  scrambled  to  them  with  every  manifesta- 
tion of  delight.  Bo  almost  forgot  her  own  needs  in  feeding 
him  and  getting  acquainted  with  him.  Tom  plainly 
showed  his  jealousy  of  Bud  and  Bud  likewise  showed  his 
fear  of  the  great  cat. 

Helen  could  not  believe  the  evidence  of  her  eyes — that 
she  was  in  the  woods  calmly  and  hungrily  partaking  of 
sweet,  wild-flavored  meat — that  a  full-grown  mountain- 
lion  lay  on  one  side  of  her  and  a  baby  brown  bear  sat  on 
the  other — that  a  strange  hunter,  a  man  of  the  forest, 
there  in  his  lonely  and  isolated  fastness,  appealed  to  the 
romance  in  her  and  interested  her  as  no  one  else  she  had 
ever  met. 

When  the  wonderful  meal  was  at  last  finished  Bo  enticed 
the  bear  cub  around  to  the  camp  of  the  girls,  and  there 
soon  became  great  comrades  with  him.  Helen,  watching 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Bo  play,  was  inclined  to  envy  her.  No  matter  where  Bo 
was  placed,  she  always  got  something  out  of  it.  She 
adapted  herself.  She,  who  could  have  a  good  time  with 
almost  any  one  or  anything,  would  find  the  hours  sweet 
and  fleeting  in  this  beautiful  park  of  wild  wonders. 

But  merely  objective  actions — merely  physical  move- 
ments, had  never  yet  contented  Helen.  She  could  run 
and  climb  and  ride  and  play  with  hearty  and  healthy 
abandon,  but  those  things  would  not  suffice  long  for  her, 
and  her  mind  needed  food.  Helen  was  a  thinker.  One 
reason  she  had  desired  to  make  her  home  in  the  West 
was  that  by  taking  up  a  life  of  the  open,  of  action,  she 
might  think  and  dream  and  brood  less.  And  here  she 
was  in  the  wild  West,  after  the  three  most  strenuously 
active  days  of  her  career,  and  still  the  same  old  giant 
revolved  her  mind  and  turned  it  upon  herself  and  upon 
all  she  saw. 

"What  can  I  do?"  she  asked  Bo,  almost  helplessly. 

"Why,  rest,  you  silly!"  retorted  Bo.  "You  walk  like 
an  old,  crippled  woman  with  only  one  leg." 

Helen  hoped  the  comparison  was  undeserved,  but  the 
advice  was  sound.  The  blankets  spread  out  on  the  grass 
looked  inviting  and  they  felt  comfortably  warm  in  the 
sunshine.  The  breeze  was  slow,  languorous,  fragrant, 
and  it  brought  the  low  hum  of  the  murmuring  waterfall, 
like  a  melody  of  bees.  Helen  made  a  pillow  and  lay  down 
to  rest.  The  green  pine-needles,  so  thin  and  fine  in  their 
crisscross  network,  showed  clearly  against  the  blue  sky. 
She  looked  in  va  n  for  birds.  Then  her  gaze  went  won- 
deringly  to  the  lofty  fringed  rim  of  the  great  amphitheater, 
and  as  she  studied  it  she  began  to  grasp  its  remoteness, 
how  far  away  it  was  in  the  rarefied  atmosphere.  A  black 
eagle,  sweeping  along,  looked  of  tiny  size,  and  yet  he  was 
far  under  the  heights  above.  How  pleasant  she  fancied 
it  to  be  up  there !  And  drowsy  fancy  lulled  her  to  sleep. 

Helen  slept  all  afternoon,  and  upon  awakening,  toward 
sunset,  found  Bo  curled  beside  her.  Dale  had  thought- 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

fully  covered  them  with  a  blanket ;  also  he  had  built  a 
camp-fire.    The  air  was  growing  keen  and  cold. 

Later,  when  they  had  put  their  coats  on  and  made 
comfortable  seats  beside  the  fire,  Dale  came  over, 
apparently  to  visit  them. 

"I  reckon  you  can't  sleep  all  the  time,"  he  said.  "An' 
bein'  city  girls,  you'll  get  lonesome." 

"Lonesome !"  echoed  Helen.  The  idea  of  her  being 
lonesome  here  had  not  occurred  to  her. 

"I've  thought  that  all  out,"  went  on  Dale,  as  he  sat 
down,  Indian  fashion,  before  the  blaze.  "It's  natural 
you'd  find  time  drag  up  here,  bein'  used  to  lots  of  people 
an'  goin's-on,  an'  work,  an'  all  girls  like." 

"I'd  never  be  lonesome  here,"  replied  Helen,  with 
her  direct  force. 

Dale  did  not  betray  surprise,  but  he  showed  that  his 
mistake  was  something  to  ponder  over. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  said,  presently,  as  his  gray  eyes  held 
hers.  "That's  how  I  had  it.  As  I  remember  girls — an' 
it  doesn't  seem  long  since  I  left  home — most  of  them 
would  die  of  lonesomeness  up  here."  Then  he  addressed 
himself  to  Bo.  "How  about  you?  You  see,  I  figured 
you'd  be  the  one  that  liked  it,  an'  your  sister  the  one 
who  wouldn't." 

"I  won't  get  lonesome  very  soon,"  replied  Bo. 

"I'm  glad.  It  worried  me  some — not  ever  havin' 
girls  as  company  before.  An'  in  a  day  or  so,  when 
you're  rested,  I'll  help  you  pass  the  time." 

Bo's  eyes  were  full  of  flashing  interest,  and  Helen 
asked  him,  "How?" 

It  was  a  sincere  expression  of  her  curiosity  and  not 
doubtful  or  ironic  challenge  of  an  educated  woman  to  a 
man  of  the  forest.  But  as  a  challenge  he  took  it. 

"How !"  he  repeated,  and  a  strange  smile  flitted  across 
his  face.  "Why,  by  givin'  you  rides  an'  climbs  to  beauti- 
ful places.  An'  then,  if  you're  interested,  to  show  you 
how  little  so-called  civilized  people  know  of  nature." 

124 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

Helen  realized  then  that  whatever  his  calling,  hunter 
or  wanderer  or  hermit,  he  was  not  uneducated,  even  if  he 
appeared  illiterate. 

"I'll  be  happy  to  learn  from  you,"  she  said. 

"Me,  too!"  chimed  in  Bo.  "You  can't  tell  too  much 
to  any  one  from  Missouri." 

He  smiled,  and  that  warmed  Helen  to  him,  for  then  he 
seemed  less  removed  from  other  people.  About  this  hunt- 
er there  began  to  be  something  of  the  very  nature  of 
which  he  spoke — a  stillness,  aloofness,  an  unbreakable 
tranquillity,  a  cold,  clear  spirit  like  that  in  the  mountain 
air,  a  physical  something  not  unlike  the  tamed  wildness  of 
his  pets  or  the  strength  of  the  pines. 

"I'll  bet  I  can  tell  you  more  'n  you'll  ever  remember," 
he  said. 

"What  '11  you  bet?"  retorted  Bo. 

"Well,  more  roast  turkey  against — say  somethin'  nice 
when  you're  safe  an'  home  to  your  uncle  Al's,  runnin'  his 
ranch." 

"Agreed.    Nell,  you  hear?" 

Helen  nodded  her  head. 

"All  right.  We'll  leave  it  to  Nell,"  began  Dale,  half 
seriously.  "Now  I'll  tell  you,  first,  for  the  fun  of  passin' 
time  we'll  ride  an'  race  my  horses  out  in  the  park.  An' 
we'll  fish  in  the  brooks  an'  hunt  in  the  woods.  There's 
an  old  silvertip  around  that  you  can  see  me  kill.  An' 
we'll  climb  to  the  peaks  an'  see  wonderful  sights.  ...  So 
much  for  that.  Now,  if  you  really  want  to  learn — or  if 
you  only  want  me  to  tell  you — well,  that's  no  matter. 
Only  I'll  win  the  bet!  ...  You'll  see  how  this  park  lies  in 
the  crater  of  a  volcano  an'  was  once  full  of  water — an' 
how  the  snow  blows  in  on  one  side  in  winter,  a  hundred 
feet  deep,  when  there's  none  on  the  other.  An'  the  trees 
• — how  they  grow  an'  live  an'  fight  one  another  an'  depend 
on  one  another,  an'  protect  the  forest  from  storm-winds. 
An'  how  they  hold  the  water  that  is  the  fountains  of  the 
great  rivers.  An'  how  the  creatures  an'  things  that  live 

125 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

fa.  them  or  on  them  are  good  for  them,  an'  neither  could 
live  without  the  other.  An'  then  I'll  show  you  my  pets 
tame  an'  untamed,  an*  tell  you  how  it's  man  that  makes 
any  creature  wild — how  easy  they  are  to  tame — an'  ho-vr 
they  learn  to  love  you.  An'  there's  the  life  ot  the  forest, 
the  strife  of  it — how  the  bear  lives,  an*  the  cats,  an'  the 
wolves,  an'  the  deer.  You'll  see  how  cruel  nature  is — 
how  savage  an'  wild  the  wolf  or  cougar  tears  down  the 
deer — how  a  wolf  loves  fresh,  hot  blood,  an'  how  a  cougar 
unrolls  the  skin  of  a  deer  back  from  his  neck.  An'  you'll 
see  that  this  cruelty  of  nature — this  work  of  the  wolf  an' 
cougar — is  what  makes  the  deer  so  beautiful  an'  healthy 
an'  swift  an'  sensitive.  Without  his  deadly  foes  the  deer 
would  deteriorate  an*  die  out.  An'  you'll  see  how  this 
principle  works  out  among  all  creatures  of  the  forest. 
Strife!  It's  the  meanin'  of  all  creation,  an'  the  salvation. 
If  you're  quick  to  see,  you'll  learn  that  the  nature  here  in 
the  wilds  is  the  same  as  that  of  men — on  y  men  are  no 
longer  cannibals.  Trees  fight  to  live — birds  fight — ani- 
mals fight — men  fight.  They  all  live  off  one  another. 
An'  it's  this  fightin'  that  brings  them  ail  closer  an'  closer 
to  bein'  perfect.  But  nothin'  will  ever  be  perfect." 

"  But  how  about  religion? "  interrupted  Helen,  earnestly. 

"Nature  has  a  religion,  an'  it's  to  live — to  grow — to 
reproduce,  each  of  its  kind." 

"But  that  is  not  God  or  the  immortality  of  the  soul," 
declared  Helen. 

"Well,  it's  as  close  to  God  an'  immortality  as  nature 
fcver  gets." 

"Oh  you  would  rob  me  of  my  religion!" 
-  "No,  I  just  talk  as  I  see  life,"  replied  Dale,  reflectively, 
6tj  he  poked  a  stick  into  the  red  embers  of  the  fire.  "  Maybe 
i  have  a  religion.  I  don't  know.  But  it's  not  the  kind 
you  have — not  the  Bible  kind.  That  kind  doesn't  keep 
the  men  in  Pine  an'  Snowdrop  an'  all  over — sheepmen  an* 
ranchers  an'  farmers  an'  travelers,  such  as  I've  known — 
the  religion  they  profess  doesn't  keep  them  from  lyin', 

126 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

cheatin',  stealin',  an'  killin'.  I  reckon  no  man  who  lives 
as  I  do — which  perhaps  is  my  religion — will  lie  or  cheat  or 
steal  or  kill,  unless  it's  to  kill  in  self-defense  or  like  I'd  do 
if  Snake  Anson  would  ride  up  here  now.  My  religion, 
maybe,  is  love  of  life — wild  life  as  it  was  in  the  beginnin' 
— an'  the  wind  that  blows  secrets  from  everywhere,  an* 
the  water  that  sings  all  day  an'  night,  an'  the  stars  that 
shine  constant,  an'  the  trees  that  speak  somehow,  an'  the 
rocks  that  aren't  dead.  I'm  never  alone  here  or  on  the 
trails.  There's  somethin'  unseen,  but  always  with  me. 
An'  that's  It!  Call  it  God  if  you  like.  But  what  stalls 
me  is — where  was  that  Spirit  when  this  earth  was  a  ball 
j>i[  fiery  gas?  Where  will  that  Spirit  be  when  all  life  is 
frozen  out  or  burned  out  on  this  globe  an'  it  hangs  dead 
in  space  like  the  moon?  That  time  will  come.  There's 
no  waste  in  nature.  Not  the  littlest  atom  is  destroyed. 
It  changes,  that's  all,  as  you  see  this  pine  wood  go  up  in 
smoke  an'  feel  somethin'  that's  heat  come  out  of  it. 
Where  does  that  go?  It's  not  lost.  Nothin'  is  lost.  So, 
the  beautiful  an'  savin'  thought  is,  maybe  all  rock  an' 
wood,  water  an'  blood  an*  flesh,  are  resolved  back  into 
the  elements,  to  come  to  life  somewhere  again  sometime." 

"Oh,  what  you  say  is  wonderful,  but  it's  terrible!"  ex- 
claimed Helen.  He  had  struck  deep  into  her  soul. 

"Terrible?     I  reckon,"  he  replied,  sadly. 

Then  ensued  a  little  interval  of  silence. 

"Milt  Dale,  I  lose  the  bet,"  declared  Bo,  with  earnest- 
ness behind  her  frivolity. 

"I'd  forgotten  that.  Reckon  I  talked  a  lot,"  he  said, 
apologetically.  "You  see,  I  don't  get  much  chance  to 
talk,  except  to  myself  or  Tom.  Years  ago,  when  I  found 
the  habit  of  silence  settlin'  down  on  me,  I  took  to  thinkin' 
out  loud  an'  talkin'  to  anythin'." 

"  I  could  listen  to  you  all  night,"  returned  Bo,  dreamily. 

"Do  you  read — do  you  have  books?"  inquired  Helen, 
suddenly. 

"Yes,  I  read  tolerable  well;  a  good  deal  better  than  I 

127 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

talk  or  write,"  he  replied.  "I  went  to  school  till  I  was 
fifteen.  Always  hated  study,  but  liked  to  read.  Years 
ago  an  old  friend  of  mine  down  here  at  Pine — Widow  Cass 
— she  gave  me  a  lot  of  old  books.  An'  I  packed  them  up 
here.  Winter's  the  time  I  read." 

Conversation  lagged  after  that,  except  for  desultory 
remarks,  and  presently  Dale  bade  the  girls  good  night 
and  left  them. 

Helen  watched  his  tall  form  vanish  in  the  gloom  under 
the  pines,  and  after  he  had  disappeared  she  still  stared. 

"Nell!"  called  Bo,  shrilly.  "I've  called  you  three 
times.  I  want  to  go  to  bed." 

"Oh!  I — I  was  thinking,"  rejoined  Helen,  half  em- 
barrassed, half  wondering  at  herself.  "I  didn't  hear 
you." 

"I  should  smile  you  didn't,"  retorted  Bo.  "Wish  you 
could  just  have  seen  your  eyes.  Nell,  do  you  want  me 
to  tell  you  something?" 

"Why — yes,"  said  Helen,  rather  feebly.  She  did  not 
at  all,  when  Bo  talked  like  that. 

"You're  going  to  fall  in  love  with  that  wild  hunter,'' 
declared  Bo  in  a  voice  that  rang  like  a  bell. 

Helen  was  not  only  amazed,  but  enraged.  She  caught 
her  breath  preparatory  to  giving  this  incorrigible  sister 
a  piece  of  her  mind.  Bo  went  calmly  on. 

"I  can  feel  it  in  my  bones." 

"Bo,  you're  a  little  fool — a  sentimental,  romancing, 
gushy  little  fool!"  retorted  Helen.  "All  you  seem  to 
hold  in  your  head  is  some  rot  about  love.  To  hear  you 
talk  one  would  think  there's  nothing  else  in  the  world 
but  love." 

Bo's  eyes  were  bright,  shrewd,  affectionate,  and  laugh- 
ing as  she  bent  their  steady  gaze  upon  Helen. 

"Nell,  that's  just  it.    There  is  nothing  else!" 


CHAPTER  X 

'"PHE  night  of  sleep  was  so  short  that  it  was  difficult  for 
1  Helen  to  believe  that  hours  had  passed.  Bo  ap- 
peared livelier  this  morning,  with  less  complaint  of  aches. 

"Nell,  you've  got  color!"  exclaimed  Bo.  "And  your 
eyes  are  bright.  Isn't  the  morning  perfectly  lovely?  .  .  . 
Couldn't  you  get  drunk  on  that  air?  I  smell  flowers. 
And  oh!  I'm  hungry!" 

"  Bo,  our  host  will  soon  have  need  of  his  hunting  abilities 
if  your  appetite  holds,"  said  Helen,  as  she  tried  to  keep 
her  hair  out  of  her  eyes  while  she  laced  her  boots. 

"Look!  there's  a  big  dog — a  hound." 

Helen  looked  as  Bo  directed,  and  saw  a  hound  of  unusu- 
ally large  proportions,  black  and  tan  in  color,  with  long, 
drooping  ears.  Curiously  he  trotted  nearer  to  the  door 
of  their  hut  and  then  stopped  to  gaze  at  them.  His  head 
was  noble,  his  eyes  shone  dark  and  sad.  He  seemed 
neither  friendly  nor  unfriendly. 

"Hello,  doggie!  Come  right  in — we  won't  hurt  you," 
called  Bo,  but  without  enthusiasm. 

This  made  Helen  laugh.  "  Bo,  you're  simply  delicious," 
she  said.  "You're  afraid  of  that  dog." 

"  Sure.    Wonder  if  he's  Dale's.     Of  course  he  must  be." 

Presently  the  hound  trotted  away  out  of  sight.  When 
the  girls  presented  themselves  at  the  camp-fire  they  espied 
their  curious  canine  visitor  lying  down.  His  ears  were 
so  long  that  half  of  them  lay  on  the  ground. 

"I  sent  Pedro  over  to  wake  you  girls  up,"  said  Dale, 
after  greeting  them.  "Did  he  scare  you?" 

"Pedro.  So  that's  his  name.  No,  he  didn't  exactly 

129 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

scare  me.  He  did  Nell,  though.  She's  an  awful  tender- 
foot," replied  Bo. 

"He's  a  splendid-looking  dog,"  said  Helen,  ignoring  her 
sister's  sally,  "  I  love  dogs.  Will  he  make  friends? " 

"He'*;  shy  an'  wild.  You  see,  when  I  leave  camp  he 
won't  hang  around.  He  an'  Tom  are  jealous  of  each 
other.  I  had  a  pack  of  hounds  an'  lost  all  but  Pedro  on 
account  of  Tom.  I  think  you  can  make  friends  with 
Pedro.  Try  it." 

Whereupon  Helen  made  overtures  to  Pedro,  and  not 
wholly  in  vain.  The  dog  was  matured,  of  almost  stern 
aloofness,  and  manifestly  not  used  to  people.  His  deep, 
wine-dark  eyes  seemed  to  search  Helen's  soul.  They 
were  honest  and  wise,  with  a  strange  sadness. 

"  He  looks  intelligent,"  observed  Helen,  as  she  smoothed 
the  long,  dark  ears. 

: '  That  hound  is  nigh  human, ' '  responded  Dale.  ' '  Come, 
an'  while  you  eat  I'll  tell  you  about  Pedro." 

Dale  had  gotten  the  hound  as  a  pup  from  a  Mexican 
sheep-herder  who  claimed  he  was  part  California  blood- 
hound. He  grew  up,  becoming  attached  to  Dale.  In 
his  younger  days  he  did  not  get  along  well  with  Dale's 
other  pets  and  Dale  gave  him  to  a  rancher  down  in  the 
valley.  Pedro  was  back  in  Dale's  camp  next  day.  From 
that  day  Dale  began  to  care  more  for  the  hound,  but  he 
did  not  want  to  keep  him,  for  various  reasons,  chief  of 
which  was  the  fact  hat  Pedro  was  too  fine  a  dog  to  be 
left  alone  half  the  time  to  shift  for  himself.  That  fall 
Dale  had  need  to  go  to  the  farthest  village,  Snowdrop, 
where  he  left  Pedro  with  a  friend.  Then  Dale  rode  to 
Show  Down  and  Pine,  and  the  camp  of  the  Beemans'. 
and  with  them  he  trailed  some  wild  horses  for  a  hundred 
miles,  over  into  New  Mexico.  The  snow  was  flying  when 
Dale  got  back  to  his  camp  in  the  mountains.  And  there 
was  Pedro,  gaunt  and  worn,  overjoyed  to  welcome  him 
home.  Roy  Beeman  visited  Dale  that  October  and  told 
that  Dale's  friend  in  Snowdrop  had  not  been  able  to  keep 

130 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Pedro.  He  broke  a  chain  and  scaled  a  ten-foot  fence  to 
escape.  He  trailed  Dale  to  Show  Down,  where  one  of 
Dale's  friends,  recognizing  the  hound,  caught  him,  and 
meant  to  keep  him  until  Dale's  return.  But  Pedro  re- 
fused to  eat.  It  happened  that  a  freighter  was  going  out 
to  the  Beeman  camp,  and  Dale's  friend  boxed  Pedro  up 
and  put  him  on  the  wagon.  Pedro  broke  out  of  the  box, 
returned  to  Show  Down,  took  up  Dale's  trail  to  Pine, 
and  then  on  to  the  Beeman  camp.  That  was  as  far  as 
Roy  could  trace  the  movements  of  the  hound.  But  he 
believed,  and  so  did  Dale,  that  Pedro  had  trailed  them 
out  on  the  wild-horse  hunt.  The  following  spring  Dale 
learned  more  from  the  herder  of  a  sheepman  at  whose 
camp  he  and  the  Beemans  had  rested  on  the  way  into 
New  Mexico.  It  appeared  that  after  Dale  had  left  this 
camp  Pedro  had  arrived,  and  another  Mexican  herder 
had  stolen  the  hound.  But  Pedro  got  away. 

"An*  he  was  here  when  I  arrived,"  concluded  Dale, 
smiling.  "I  never  wanted  to  get  rid  of  him  after  that. 
He's  turned  out  to  be  the  finest  dog  I  ever  knew.  He 
knows  what  I  say.  He  can  almost  talk.  An'  I  swear  he 
can  cry.  He  does  whenever  I  start  off  without  him." 

"How  perfectly  wonderful!"  exclaimed  Bo.  "Aren't 
animals  great?  .  .  .  But  I  love  horses  best." 

It  seemed  to  Helen  that  Pedro  understood  they  were 
talking  about  him,  for  he  looked  ashamed,  and  swallowed 
hard,  and  dropped  his  gaze.  She  knew  something  of  the 
truth  about  the  love  of  dogs  for  their  owners.  This  story 
,of  Dale's,  however,  was  stranger  than  any  she  had  ever 
heard. 

Tom,  the  cougar,  put  in  an  appearance  then,  and  there 
was  scarcely  love  in  the  tawny  eyes  he  bent  upon  Pedro. 
But  the  hound  did  not  deign  to  notice  him.  Tom  sidled 
up  to  Bo,  who  sat  on  the  farther  side  of  the  tarpaulin 
table-cloth,  and  manifestly  wanted  part  of  her  breakfast. 

"Gee!  I  love  the  look  of  him,"  she  said.  "But  when 
he's  close  he  makes  my  flesh  creep.'* 

131 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"  Beasts  are  as  queer  as  people,"  observed  Dale.  "  They 
take  likes  an'  dislikes.  I  believe  Tom  has  taken  a  shine 
to  you  an'  Pedro  begins  to  be  interested  in  your  sister. 
I  can  tell." 

"Where's  Bud?"  inquired  Bo. 

"  He's  asleep  or  around  somewhere.  Now,  soon  as  I  get 
the  work  done,  what  would  you  girls  like  to  do?" 

"Ride!"  declared  Bo,  eagerly. 

"Aren't  you  sore  an'  stiff?" 

"I  am  that.  But  I  don't  care.  Besides,  when  I  used 
to  go  out  to  my  uncle's  farm  near  Saint  Joe  I  always 
found  riding  to  be  a  cure  for  aches." 

"Sure  is,  if  you  can  stand  it.  An'  what  will  your  sister 
like  to  do?"  returned  Dale,  turning  to  Helen. 

"Oh,  I'll  rest,  and  watch  you  folks — and  dream,"  re- 
plied Helen. 

"But  after  you've  rested  you  must  be  active,"  said 
Dale,  seriously.  "You  must  do  things.  It  doesn't  mat- 
ter what,  just  as  long  as  you  don't  sit  idle." 

"Why?"  queried  Helen,  in  surprise.  "Why  not  be  idle 
here  in  this  beautiful,  wild  place?  Just  to  dream  away 
the  hours — the  days!  I  could  do  it." 

"  But  you  mustn't.  It  took  me  years  to  learn  how  bad 
that  was  for  me.  An*  right  now  I  would  love  nothin* 
more  than  to  forget  my  work,  my  horses  an'  pets — every- 
thin',  an'  just  lay  around,  seein'  an'  feelin'." 

"Seeing  and  feeling?  Yes,  that  must  be  what  I  mean. 
But  why — what  is  it?  There  are  the  beauty  and  color — 
the  wild,  shaggy  slopes — the  gray  cliffs — the  singing 
wind — the  lulling  water — the  clouds — the  sky.  And  the 
silence,  loneliness,  sweetness  of  it  all." 

"It's  a  driftin'  back.  What  I  love  to  do  an'  yet  fear 
most.  It's  what  makes  a  lone  hunter  of  a  man.  An'  it 
can  grow  so  strong  that  it  binds  a  man  to  the  wilds." 

"How  strange!"  murmured  Helen.  "But  that  could 
never  bind  me.  Why,  I  must  live  and  fulfil  my  mission, 
my  work  in  the  civilized  world." 

132 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

It  seemed  to  Helen  that  Dale  almost  imperceptibly 
shrank  at  her  earnest  words. 

"The  ways  of  Nature  are  strange,"  he  said.  "I  look 
at  it  different.  Nature's  just  as  keen  to  wean  you  back 
to  a  savage  state  as  you  are  to  be  civilized.  An*  if  Nature 
,  you  would  carry  out  her  design  all  the  better." 

This  hunter's  talk  shocked  Helen  and  yet  stimulated 

mind. 

,     "Me— a  savage?    Oh  no!"  she  exclaimed.    "But,  if 
fthat  were  possible,  what  would  Nature's  design  be?" 

"You  spoke  of  your  mission  in  life,"  he  replied.  "A 
woman's  mission  is  to  have  children.  The  female  of  any 
species  has  only  one  mission — to  reproduce  its  kind.  An* 
Nature  has  only  one  mission — toward  greater  strength, 
virility,  efficiency — absolute  perfection,  which  is  unattain- 
able." 

"What  of  mental  and  spiritual  development  of  man  and 
woman?"  asked  Helen. 

"Both  are  direct  obstacles  to  the  design  of  Nature.' 
Nature  is  physical.  To  create  for  limitless  endurance — < 
for  eternal  life.  That  must  be  Nature's  inscrutable  de- 
sign. An*  why  she  must  fail." 

"But  the  soul!"  whispered  Helen. 

"Ah!  When  you  speak  of  the  soul  an'  I  speak  of  life 
we  mean  the  same.  You  an'  I  will  have  some  talks  while 
you're  here.  I  must  brush  up  my  thoughts." 

"So  must  I,  it  seems,"  said  Helen,  with  a  slow  smile. 
She  had  been  rendered  grave  and  thoughtful.  "But  I 
ctuess  I'll  risk  dreaming  under  the  pines." 

Bo  had  been  watching  them  with  her  keen  blue  eyes. 

"Nell,  it  'd  take  a  thousand  years  to  make  a  savage  of 
you,"  she  said.  "But  a  week  will  do  for  me." 

"Bo,  you  were  one  before  you  left  Saint  Joe,"  replied 
Helen.  "  Don't  you  remember  that  school-teacher  Barnes 
who  said  you  were  a  wildcat  and  an  Indian  mixed?  He 
spanked  you  with  a  ruler." 

"Never!    He  missed  me,"  retorted  Bo,  with  red  in  her 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

cheeks.    "Nell,  I  wish  you'd  not  tell  things  about  n& 
when  I  was  a  kid." 

"That  was  only  two  years  ago,"  expostulated  Helen, 
in  mild  surprise. 

"  Suppose  it  was.  I  was  a  kid  all  right.  I'll  bet  you —  " 
Bo  broke  up  abruptly,  and,  tossing  her  head,  she  gave  Tom 
a  pat  and  then  ran  away  around  the  corner  of  cliff  wall. 

Helen  followed  leisurely. 

"Say,  Nell,"  said  Bo,  when  Helen  arrived  at  their  little 
green  lodge-pole  hut,  "do  you  know  that  hunter  fellow 
will  upset  some  of  your  theories?" 

"Maybe.  I'll  admit  he  amazes  me — and  affronts  me, 
too,  I'm  afraid,"  replied  Helen.  "What  surprises  me  is 
that  in  spite  of  his  evident  lack  of  schooling  hs's  not  raw 
or  crude.  He's  elemental." 

"Sister  dear,  wake  up.  The  man's  wonderful.  You 
can  learn  more  from  him  than  you  ever  learned  in  your  life. 
So  can  I.  I  always  hated  books,  anyway." 

When,  a  little  later,  Dale  approached  carrying  some 
bridles,  the  hound  Pedro  trotted  at  his  heels. 

"  I  reckon  you'd  better  ride  the  horse  you  had,"  he  said 
to  Bo. 

"Whatever  you  say.  But  I  hope  you  let  me  ride  them 
all,  by  and  by." 

"Sure.  I've  a  mustang  out  there  you'll  like.  But  he 
pitches  a  little,"  he  rejoined,  and  turned  away  toward 
the  park.  The  hound  looked  after  him  and  then  at  Helen. 

"Come,  Pedro.     Stay  with  me,"  called  Helen. 

Dale,  hearing  her,  motioned  the  hound  back.  Obe- 
diently Pedro  trotted  to  her,  still  shy  and  soberly  watch- 
ful, as  if  not  sure  of  her  intentions,  but  with  something 
)of  friendliness  about  him  now.  Helen  found  a  soft,  rest- 
ful seat  in  the  sun  facing  the  park,  and  there  composed 
herself  for  what  she  felt  would  be  slow,  sweet,  idle  hours. 
Pedro  curled  down  beside  her.  The  tall  form  of  Dale 
stalked  across  the  park,  out  toward  the  straggling  horses. 
Again  she  saw  a  deer  grazing  among  them.  How 

134 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

and  motionless  it  stood  watching  Dale!  Presently  it 
bounded  away  toward  the  edge  of  the  forest.  Sonw  of 
the  horses  whistled  and  ran,  kicking  heels  high  in  tne  air. 
The  shrill  whistles  rang  clear  in  the  stillness. 

"Gee!  Look  at  them  go!"  exclaimed  Bo,  gleefully,  com- 
ing up  to  where  Helen  sat.  Bo  threw  herself  down  upon 
the  fragrant  pine-needles  and  stretched  herself  languor- 
ously, like  a  lazy  kitten.  There  was  something  feline  in 
her  lithe,  graceful  outline.  She  lay  flat  and  looked  up 
through  the  pines. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  great,  now,"  she  murmured,  dreamily, 
half  to  herself,  "if  that  Las  Vegas  cowboy  would  happen 
somehow  to  come,  and  then  an  earthquake  would  shut 
us  up  here  in  this  Paradise  valley  so  we'd  never  get  out?" 

"Bo!  What  would  mother  say  to  such  talk  as  that?** 
gasped  Helen. 

"But,  Nell,  wouldn't  it  be  great?" 

"It  would  be  terrible." 

"Oh,  there  never  was  any  romance  in  you,  Nell  Ray- 
aer,"  replied  Bo.  "That  very  thing  has  actually  hap* 
pened  out  here  in  this  wonderful  country  of  wild  places. 
You  need  not  tell  me!  Sure  it's  happened.  With  the 
cliff-dwellers  and  the  Indians  and  then  white  people. 
Every  place  I  look  makes  me  feel  that.  Nell,  you'd  have 
to  see  people  in  the  moon  through  a  telescope  before  you'd 
believe  that." 

"I'm  practical  and  sensible,  thank  goodness!" 

"But,  for  the  sake  of  argument,"  protested  Bo,  with 
flashing  eyes,  "suppose  it  might  happen.  Just  to  please 
me,  suppose  we  did  get  shut  up  here  with  Dale  and  that 
cowboy  we  saw  from  the  train.  Shut  in  without  any  hope 
of  ever  climbing  out.  .  .  .  What  would  you  do?  Would 
you  give  up  and  pine  away  and  die?  Or  would  you  fight 
for  life  and  whatever  joy  it  might  mean?" 

"Self-preservation  is  the  first  instinct,"  replied  Helen, 
eurpnsed  at  a  strange,  deep  thrill  in  the  depths  of  her. 
"I'd  fight  for  life,  of  course." 

135 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"Yes.  Well,  really,  when  I  think  seriously  I  don't 
want  anything  like  that  to  happen.  But,  just  the  same, 
if  it  did  happen  I  would  glory  in  it." 

While  they  were  talking  Dale  returned  with  the  horses. 

"Can  you  bridle  an'  saddle  your  own  horse?"  he  asked. 

"No.     I'm  ashamed  to  say  I  can't,"  replied  Bo. 

"Time  to  learn  then.  Come  on.  Watch  me  first  when 
I  saddle  mine." 

Bo  was  all  eyes  while  Dale  slipped  off  the  bridle  front 
his  horse  and  then  with  slow,  plain  action  readjusted  it. 
Next  he  smoothed  the  back  of  the  horse,  shook  out  th* 
blanket,  and,  folding  it  half  over,  he  threw  it  in  place, 
being  careful  to  explain  to  Bo  just  the  right  position.  He 
lifted  his  saddle  in  a  certain  way  and  put  that  in  place 
and  then  he  tightened  the  cinches. 

"Now  you  try,"  he  said. 

According  to  Helen's  judgment  Bo  might  have  been  r 
Western  girl  all  her  days.  But  Dale  shook  his  head  ancf 
made  her  do  it  over. 

"That  was  better.  Of  course,  the  saddle  is  too  heavy 
for  you  to  sling  it  up.  You  can  learn  that  with  a  light, 
one.  Now  put  the  bridle  on  again.  Don't  be  afraid  at' 
your  hands.  He  won't  bite.  Slip  the  bit  in  sideways.  .  . . 
There.  Now  let's  see  you  mount." 

When  "So  got  into  the  saddle  Dale  continued:  "Yor 
went  up  quick  an'  light,  but  the  wrong  way.  Watch  me.'* 

Bo  had  to  mount  several  times  before  Dale  was  satisfied. 
Then  he  told  her  to  ride  off  a  little  distance.  When  Bo 
had  gotten  out  of  earshot  Dale  said  to  Helen:  "She'll 
take  to  a  horse  like  a  duck  takes  to  water."  Then, 
mounting,  he  rode  out  after  her. 

Helen  watched  them  trotting  and  galloping  and  run- 
ning the  horses  round  the  grassy  park,  and  rather  regretted 
she  had  not  gone  with  them.  Eventually  Bo  rode  back, 
to  dismount  and  fling  herself  down,  red-cheeked  and 
radiant,  with  disheveled  hair,  and  curls  damp  on  hef 
temples.  How  alive  she  seemed!  Helen's  senses  thrilled 

136 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

with  the  grace  and  charm  and  vitality  of  this  surprising 
sister,  and  she  was  aware  of  a  sheer  physical  joy  in  her 
presence.  Bo  rested,  but  she  did  not  rest  long.  She  was 
soon  off  to  play  with  Bud.  Then  she  coaxed  the  tame 
doe  to  eat  out  of  her  hand.  She  dragged  Helen  off  for 
wild  flowers,  curious  and  thoughtless  by  turns.  And  at 
length  she  fell  asleep,  quickly,  in  a  way  that  reminded 
Helen  of  the  childhood  now  gone  forever. 

Dale  called  them  to  dinner  about  four  o'clock,  as  the 
sun  was  reddening  the  western  rampart  of  the  park. 
Helen  wondered  where  the  day  had  gone.  The  hours 
had  flown  swiftly,  serenely,  bringing  her  scarcely  a  thought 
of  her  uncle  or  dread  of  her  forced  detention  there  or 
possible  discovery  by  those  outlaws  supposed  to  be  hunt- 
ing for  her.  After  she  realized  the  passing  of  those  hours 
she  had  an  intangible  and  indescribable  feeling  of  what 
Dale  had  meant  about  dreaming  the  hours  away.  The( 
nature  of  Paradise  Park  was  inimical  to  the  kind  of 
thought  that  had  habitually  been  hers.  She  found  the 
new  thought  absorbing,  yet  when  she  tried  to  name  it 
she  found  that,  after  all,  she  had  only  felt.  At  the  meal 
hour  she  was  more  than  usually  quiet.  She  saw  that 
Dale  noticed  it  and  was  trying  to  interest  her  or  distract 
her  attention.  He  succeeded,  but  she  did  not  choose  to 
let  him  see  that.  She  strolled  away  alone  to  her  seat  under 
the  pine.  Bo  passed  her  once,  and  cried,  tantalizingly: 
"My,  Nell,  but  you're  growing  romantic!" 
Never  before  in  Helen's  life  had  the  beauty  of  the 
evening  star  seemed  so  exquisite  or  the  twilight  so  moving 
and  shadowy  or  the  darkness  so  charged  with  loneliness, 
It  was  their  environment — the  accompaniment  of  wild 
wolf-mourn,  of  the  murmuring  waterfall,  of  this  strange 
man  of  the  forest  and  the  unfamiliar  elements  among 
which  he  made  his  home. 

Next  morning,   her  energy   having  returned,   Helen 
shared  Bo's  lesson  in  bridling  and  saddling  her  horse,  and 
to  337 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

in  riding.  Bo,  however,  rode  so  fast  and  so  hard  that  for 
Helen  to  share  her  company  was  impossible.  And  Dale, 
interested  and  amused,  yet  anxious,  spent  most  of  his 
time  with  Bo.  It  was  thus  that  Helen  rode  all  over  the 
park  alone.  She  was  astonished  at  its  size,  when  from 
almost  any  point  it  looked  so  small.  The  atmosphere  de- 
ceived her.  How  clearly  she  could  see!  And  she  began 
to  judge  distance  by  the  size  of  familiar  things.  A  horse, 
looked  at  across  the  longest  length  of  the  park,  seemed 
very  small  indeed.  Here  and  there  she  rode  upon  dark, 
swift,  little  brooks,  exquisitely  clear  and  amber-colored 
and  almost  hidden  from  sight  by  the  long  grass.  These 
all  ran  one  way,  and  united  to  form  a  deeper  brook  that 
apparently  wound  under  the  cliffs  at  the  west  end,  and 
plunged  to  an  outlet  in  narrow  clefts.  When  Dale  and 
Bo  came  to  her  once  she  made  inquiry,  and  she  was  sur- 
prised to  learn  from  Dale  that  this  brook  disappeared  in 
a  hole  in  the  rocks  and  had  an  outlet  on  the  other  side  of 
the  mountain.  Sometime  he  would  take  them  to  the  lake 
it  formed. 

"Over  the  mountain?"  asked  Helen,  again  remembering 
that  she  must  regard  herself  as  a  fugitive.  "Will  it  be 
safe  to  leave  our  hiding-place?  I  forget  so  often  why  we 
are  here." 

"We  would  be  better  hidden  over  there  than  here," 
replied  Dale.  "The  valley  on  that  side  is  accessible  only 
from  that  ridge.  An'  don't  worry  about  bein'  found.  I 
told  you  Roy  Beeman  is  watchin'  Anson  an'  his  gang. 
Roy  will  keep  between  them  an'  us." 

Helen  was  reassured,  yet  there  must  always  linger  in 
the  background  of  her  mind  a  sense  of  dread.  In  spite  of 
this,  she  determined  to  make  the  most  of  her  opportunity. 
Bo  was  a  stimulus.  And  so  Helen  spent  the  rest  of  that 
day  riding  and  tagging  after  her  sister. 

The  next  day  was  less  hard  on  Helen.  Activity,  rest, 
eating,  and  sleeping  took  on  a  wonderful  new  meaning  to 
her.  She  had  really  never  known  them  as  strange  joys. 

138 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

She  rode,  she  walked,  she  climbed  a  little,  she  dozed  under 
her  pine-tree,  she  worked  helping  Dale  at  camp-fire  tasks, 
and  when  night  came  she  said  she  did  not  know  herself. 
That  fact  haunted  her  in  vague,  deep  dreams.  Upon 
awakening  she  forgot  her  resolve  to  study  herself.  That 
day  passed.  And  then  several  more  went  swiftly  before 
she  adapted  herself  to  a  situation  she  had  reason  to  believe 
might  last  for  weeks  and  even  months. 

It  was  afternoon  that  Helen  loved  best  of  all  the  time 
of  the  day.  The  sunrise  was  fresh,  beautiful;  the  morn- 
ing was  windy,  fragrant;  the  sunset  was  rosy,  glorious; 
the  twilight  was  sad,  changing;  and  night  seemed  in- 
finitely sweet  with  its  stars  and  silence  and  sleep.  But 
the  afternoon,  when  nothing  changed,  when  all  was 
serene,  when  time  seemed  to  halt,  that  was  her  choice, 
and  her  solace. 

One  afternoon  she  had  camp  all  to  herself.  Bo  was 
riding.  Dale  had  climbed  the  mountain  to  see  if  he  could 
find  any  trace  of  tracks  or  see  any  smoke  from  camp-fire. 
Bud  was  nowhere  to  be  seen,  nor  any  of  the  other  pets. 
Tom  had  gone  off  to  some  sunny  ledge  where  he  could 
bask  in  the  sun,  after  the  habit  of  the  wilder  brothers  of 
his  species.  Pedro  had  not  been  seen  for  a  night  and  a 
day,  a  fact  that  Helen  had  noted  with  concern.  However, 
she  had  forgotten  him,  and  therefore  was  the  more  sur- 
prised to  see  him  coming  limping  into  camp  on  three  legs. 

"Why,  Pedro!  You  have  been  fighting.  Come  here," 
she  called. 

The  hound  did  not  look  guilty.  He  limped  to  her  and 
held  up  his  right  fore  paw.  The  action  was  unmistakable. 
Helen  examined  the  injured  member  and  presently  found 
a  piece  of  what  looked  like  mussel-shell  embedded  deeply 
between  the  toes.  The  wound  was  swollen,  bloody,  and 
evidently  very  painful.  Pedro  whined.  Helen  had  to 
exert  all  the  strength  of  her  fingers  to  pull  it  out.  Then 
Pedro  howled.  But  immediately  he  showed  his  grati- 

no 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

tude  by  licking  her  hand.    Helen  bathed  his  paw  and 
bound  it  up. 

When  Dale  returned  she  related  the  incident  and,  show- 
ing the  piece  of  shell,  she  asked:  "Where  did  that  come 
from?  Are  there  shells  in  the  mountains?" 

"Once  this  country  was  under  the  sea,"  replied  Dale. 
"I've  found  things  that  'd  make  you  wonder." 

"Under  the  sea!"  ejaculated  Helen.  It  was  one  thing 
to  have  read  of  such  a  strange  fact,  but  a  vastly  different 
one  to  realize  it  here  among  these  lofty  peaks.  Dale  was 
always  showing  her  something  or  telling  her  something 
that  astounded  her. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  one  day.  "What  do  you  make 
of  that  little  bunch  of  aspens?" 

They  were  on  the  farther  side  of  the  park  and  were 
resting  under  a  pine-tree.  The  forest  here  encroached 
upon  the  park  with  its  straggling  lines  of  spruce  and 
groves  of  aspen.  The  little  clump  of  aspens  did  not  differ 
from  hundreds  Helen  had  seen. 

"I  don't  make  anything  particularly  of  it,"  replied 
Helen,  dubiously.  "Just  a  tiny  grove  of  aspens — some 
very  small,  some  larger,  but  none  very  big.  But  it's 
pretty  with  its  green  and  yellow  leaves  fluttering  and 
quivering." 

"  It  doesn't  make  you  think  of  a  fight? " 

"Fight?     No,  it  certainly  does  not,"  replied  Helen. 

"Well,  it's  as  good  an  example  of  fight,  of  strife,  of 
selfishness,  as  you  will  find  in  the  forest,"  he  said. 
"Now  come  over,  you  an'  Bo,  an*  let  me  show  you 
what  I  mean." 

"Come  on,  Nell,"  cried  Bo,  with  enthusiasm.  "He'll 
open  our  eyes  some  more." 

Nothing  loath,  Helen  went  with  them  to  the  little  clump 
of  aspens. 

"About  a  hundred  altogetker,"  said  Dale.  "They're 
pretty  well  shaded  by  the  spruces,  but  they  get  the  sun- 
light trom  east  an'  south.  These  little  trees  all  came  from 

140 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

the  same  seedlings.  They're  all  the  same  age.  Four  of 
them  stand,  say,  ten  feet  or  more  high  an'  they're  as  large 
'round  as  my  wrist.  Here's  one  that's  largest.  See  how 
full-foliaged  he  is — how  he  stands  over  most  of  the  others, 
but  not  so  much  over  these  four  next  to  him.  They  all 
stand  close  together,  very  close,  you  see.  Most  of  them 
are  no  larger  than  my  thumb.  Look  how  few  branches 
they  have,  an'  none  low  down.  Look  at  how  few  leaves. 
Do  you  see  how  all  the  branches  stand  out  toward  the 
east  an'  south — how  the  leaves,  of  course,  face  the  same 
way?  See  how  one  branch  of  one  tree  bends  aside  one 
from  another  tree.  That's  a  fight  for  the  sunlight.  .  .  . 
Here  are  one — two — three  dead  trees.  Look,  I  can  snap 
tfiem  off.  An'  now  look  down  under  them.  Here  are 
little  trees  five  feet  high — four  feet  high — down  to  these 
only  a  foot  high.  Look  how  pale,  delicate,  fragile,  un- 
healthy! They  get  so  little  sunshine.  They  were  born 
with  the  other  trees,  but  did  not  get  an  equal  start.  Posi- 
tion gives  the  advantage,  perhaps." 

Dale  led  the  girls  around  the  little  grove,  illustrating 
his  words  by  action.  He  seemed  deeply  in  earnest. 

"You  understand  it's  a  fight  for  water  an'  sun.  But 
mostly  sun,  because,  if  the  leaves  can  absorb  the  sun,  the 
tree  an'  roots  will  grow  to  grasp  the  needed  moisture. 
Shade  is  death — slow  death  to  the  life  of  trees.  These 
little  aspens  are  fightin'  for  place  in  the  sunlight.  It  is 
a  merciless  battle.  They  push  an'  bend  one  another's 
branches  aside  an'  choke  them.  Only  perhaps  half  of 
these  aspens  will  survive,  to  make  one  of  the  larger  clumps, 
such  as  that  one  of  full-grown  trees  over  there.  One 
season  will  give  advantage  to  this  saplin'  an'  next  year  to 
that  one.  A  few  seasons'  advantage  to  one  assures  its 
dominance  over  the  others.  But  it  is  never  sure  of  holdin' 
that  dominance.  An'  if  wind  or  storm  or  a  strong-growin' 
rival  does  not  overthrow  it,  then  sooner  or  later  old  age 
will.  For  there  is  absolute  and  continual  fight.  What  is 
true  of  these  aspens  is  true  of  all  the  trees  in  the  forest 

141 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

an'  of  all  plant  life  in  the  forest.  What  is  most  wonderful 
to  me  is  the  tenacity  of  life." 

And  next  day  Dale  showed  them  an  even  more  striking 
example  of  this  mystery  of  nature.  He  guided  them  on 
horseback  up  one  of  the  thick,  verdant-wooded  slopes, 
calling  their  attention  at  various  times  to  the  different 
growths,  until  they  emerged  on  the  summit  of  the  ridge 
where  the  timber  grew  scant  and  dwarfed.  At  the  edge 
of  timber-line  he  showed  a  gnarled  and  knotted  spruce- 
tree,  twisted  out  of  all  semblance  to  a  beautiful  spruce, 
bent  and  storm-blasted,  with  almost  bare  branches,  all 
•reaching  one  way.  The  tree  was  a  specter.  It  stood 
alone.  It  had  little  green  upon  it.  There  seemed  some- 
thing tragic  about  its  contortions.  But  it  was  alive  and 
strong.  It  had  no  rivals  to  take  sun  or  moisture.  Its 
enemies  were  the  snow  and  wind  and  cold  of  the  heights. 

Helen  felt,  as  the  realization  came  to  her,  the  knowledge 
Dale  wished  to  impart,  that  it  was  as  sad  as  wonderful, 
and  as  mysterious  as  it  was  inspiring.  At  that  moment 
there  were  both  the  sting  and  sweetness  of  life — the  pain 
and  the  joy — in  Helen's  heart.  These  strange  facts  were 
going  to  teach  her — to  transform  her.  And  even  if  they 
hurt,  she  welcomed  them. 


CHAPTER  XI 

"  T  'LL  ride  you — if  it  breaks — my  neck!"  panted  Bo,  pas- 
1  sionately,  shaking  her  gloved  fist  at  the  gray  pony. 
Dale  stood  near  with  a  broad  smile  on  his  face.  Helen 
was  within  earshot,  watching  from  the  edge  of  the  park, 
and  she  felt  so  fascinated  and  frightened  that  she  could 
not  call  out  for  Bo  to  stop.  The  little  gray  mustang  was 
a  beauty,  clean-limbed  and  racy,  with  long  black  mane 
and  tail,  and  a  fine,  spirited  head.  There  was  a  blanket 
strapped  on  his  back,  but  no  saddle.  Bo  held  the  short 
halter  that  had  been  fastened  in  a  hackamore  knot  round 
his  nose.  She  wore  no  coat;  her  blouse  was  covered 
with  grass  and  seeds,  and  it  was  open  at  the  neck;  her 
hair  hung  loose  and  disheveled;  one  side  of  her  face  bore 
a  stain  of  grass  and  dirt  and  a  suspicion  of  blood;  the 
other  was  red  and  white;  her  eyes  blazed;  beads  of  sweat 
stood  out  on  her  brow  and  wet  places  shone  on  her  cheeks. 
As  she  began  to  strain  on  the  halter,  pulling  herself  closer 
to  the  fiery  pony,  the  outline  of  her  slender  shape  stood 
out  lithe  and  strong. 

Bo  had  been  defeated  in  her  cherished  and  determined 
ambition  to  ride  Dale's  mustang,  and  she  was  furious. 
The  mustang  did  not  appear  to  be  vicious  or  mean.  But 
he  was  spirited,  tricky,  mischievous,  and  he  had  thrown 
her  six  times.  The  scene  of  Bo's  defeat  was  at  the  edge 
of  the  park,  where  thick  moss  and  grass  afforded  soft 
places  for  her  to  fall.  It  also  afforded  poor  foothold  for 
the  gray  mustang,  obviously  placing  him  at  a  disadvan- 
tage. Dale  did  not  bridle  him,  because  he  had  not  been 
broken  to  a  bridle:  and  though  it  was  harder  for  Bo  to 


7 HE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

try  to  ride  him  bareback,  there  was  less  risk  of  her  being 
hurt.  Bo  had  begun  in  all  eagerness  and  enthusiasm, 
loving  and  petting  the  mustang,  which  she  named  "  Pony." 
She  had  evidently  anticipated  an  adventure,  but  her 
smiling,  resolute  face  had  denoted  confidence.  Pony  had 
stood  fairly  well  to  be  mounted,  and  then  had  pitched 
and  tossed  until  Bo  had  slid  off  or  been  upset  or  thrown. 
After  each  fall  Bo  bounced  up  with  less  of  a  smile  and 
more  of  spirit,  until  now  the  Western  passion  to  master 
a  horse  had  suddenly  leaped  to  life  within  her.  It  was 
no  longer  fun,  no  more  a  daring  circus  trick  to  scare  Helen 
and  rouse  Dale's  admiration.  The  issue  now  lay  between 
Bo  and  the  mustang. 

Pony  reared,  snorting,  tossing  his  head,  and  pawing 
with  front  feet. 

"Pull  him  down!"  yelled  Dale. 

Bo  did  not  have  much  weight,  but  she  had  strength, 
and  she  hauled  with  all  her  might,  finally  bringing  him 
down. 

"Now  hold  hard  an*  take  up  rope  an*  get  in  to  him," 
called  Dale.  "Good!  You're  sure  not  afraid  of  him. 
He  sees  that.  Now  hold  him,  talk  to  him,  tell  him  you're 
goin'  to  ride  him.  Pet  him  a  little.  An'  when  he  quits 
shakin',  grab  his  mane  an'  jump  up  an'  slide  a  leg  over 
him.  Then  hook  your  feet  under  him,  hard  as  you  can, 
an*  stick  on." 

If  Helen  had  not  been  so  frightened  for  Bo  she  would 
have  been  able  to  enjoy  her  other  sensations.  Creeping, 
cold  thrills  chased  over  her  as  Bo,  supple  and  quick,  slid 
an  arm  and  a  leg  over  Pony  and  straightened  up  on  him 
with  a  defiant  cry.  Pony  jerked  his  head  down,  brought 
his  feet  together  in  one  jump,  and  began  to  bounce.  Bo 
got  the  swing  of  him  this  time  and  stayed  on. 

"You're  ridin'  him,"  yelled  Dale.  "Now  squeeze  hard 
with  your  knees.  Crack  him  over  the  head  with  your 
rope.  .  .  .  That's  the  way.  Hang  on  now  an'  you'll  have 
him  beat." 

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THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

The  mustang  pitched  all  over  the  space  adjacent  to 
Dale  and  Helen,  tearing  up  the  moss  and  grass.  Several 
times  he  tossed  Bo  high,  but  she  slid  back  to  grip  him 
again  with  her  legs,  and  he  could  not  throw  her.  Sud- 
denly he  raised  his  head  and  bolted.  Dale  answered  Bo's 
triumphant  cry.  But  Pony  had  not  run  fifty  feet  before 
he  tripped  and  fell,  throwing  Bo  far  over  his  head.  As 
luck  would  have  it — good  luck,  Dale  afterward  said — she 
landed  in  a  boggy  place  and  the  force  of  her  momentum 
was  such  that  she  slid  several  yards,  face  down,  in  wet 
moss  and  black  ooze. 

Helen  uttered  a  scream  and  ran  forward.  Bo  was 
getting  to  her  knees  when  Dale  reached  her.  He  helped 
her  up  and  half  led,  half  carried  her  out  of  the  boggy 
place.  Bo  was  not  recognizable.  From  head  to  foot 
she  was  dripping  black  ooze. 

"Oh,  Bo!    Are  you  hurt?"  cried  Helen. 

Evidently  Bo's  mouth  was  full  of  mud. 

"Pp— su— tt!  Ough!  Whew!  "she  sputtered.  "Hurt? 
No!  Can't  you  see  what  I  lit  in?  Dale,  the  sun-of-a-gun 
didn't  throw  me.  He  fell,  and  I  went  over  his  head." 

"  Right.  You  sure  rode  him.  An'  he  tripped  an'  slung 
you  a  mile, ' '  replied  Dale.  ' '  It's  lucky  you  lit  in  that  bog. ' ' 

"Lucky!  With  eyes  and  nose  stopped  up?  Oooo! 
I'm  full  of  mud.  And  my  nice — new  riding-suit!" 

Bo's  tones  indicated  that  she  was  ready  to  cry.  Helen, 
realizing  Bo  had  not  been  hurt,  began  to  laugh.  Her 
sister  was  the  funniest-looking  object  that  had  ever  come 
before  her  eyes. 

"Nell  Rayner — are  you — laughing — at  me?"  demanded 
3o,  in  most  righteous  amaze  and  anger. 

"Me  laugh-ing?  N-never,  Bo,"  replied  Helen.  "Can't 
you  see  I'm  just — just — " 

"See?  You  idiot!  my  eyes  are  full  of  mud!"  flashed 
Bo.  "But  I  hear  you.  I'll— I'll  get  even." 

Dale  was  laughing,  too,  but  noiselessly,  and  Bo,  being 
blind  for  the  moment,  could  not  be  aware  of  that.  By 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

this  time  they  had  reached  camp.  Helen  fell  flat  and 
laughed  as  she  had  never  laughed  before.  When  Helen 
forgot  herself  so  far  as  to  roll  on  the  ground  it  was  indeed 
a  laughing  matter.  Dale's  big  frame  shook  as  he  pos- 
sessed himself  of  a  towel  and,  wetting  it  at  the  spring, 
began  to  wipe  the  mud  off  Bo's  face.  But  that  did  not 
serve.  Bo  asked  to  be  led  to  the  water,  where  she  knelt 
and,  with  splashing,  washed  out  her  eyes,  and  then  her 
face,  and  then  the  bedraggled  strands  of  hair. 

"That  mustang  didn't  break  my  neck,  but  he  rooted 
my  face  in  the  mud.  I'll  fix  him,"  she  muttered,  as  she 
got  up.  "Please  let  me  have  the  towel,  now.  .  .  .  Well' 
Milt  Dale,  you're  laughing!" 

"Ex-cuse  me,  Bo.  I— Haw!  haw!  haw!"  Then  Dale 
lurched  off,  holding  his  sides. 

Bo  gazed  after  him  and  then  back  at  Helen. 

"I  suppose  if  I'd  been  kicked  and  smashed  and  killed 
you'd  laugh,"  she  said.  And  then  she  melted.  "Oh,  my 
pretty  riding-suit!  What  a  mess!  I  must  be  a  sight.  .  .  . 
Nell,  I  rode  that  wild  pony — the  sun-of-a-gun !  I  rode  him! 
That's  enough  for  me.  You  try  it.  Laugh  all  you  want. 
It  was  funny.  But  if  you  want  to  square  yourself  with 
me,  help  me  clean  my  clothes." 

Late  in  the  night  Helen  heard  Dale  sternly  calling 
Pedro.  She  felt  some  little  alarm.  However,  nothing 
happened,  and  she  soon  went  to  sleep  again.  At  the 
morning  meal  Dale  explained. 

"Pedro  an'  Tom  were  uneasy  last  night.  I  think  there 
are  lions  workin'  over  the  ridge  somewhere.  I  heard 
one  scream." 

"Scream?"  inquired  Bo,  with  interest. 

"Yes,  an'  if  you  ever  hear  a  lion  scream  you  will  think 
H  a  woman  in  mortal  agony.  The  cougar  cry,  as  Roy 
rails  it,  is  the  wildest  to  be  heard  in  the  woods.  A  wolf 
howls.  He  is  sad,  hungry,  and  wild.  But  a  cougar 
seems  human  an'  dyin'  an'  wild.  We'll  saddle  up  an' 

:a.6 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

ride  over  there.     Maybe  Pedro  will  tree  a  lion.    Bo,  fi 
he  does  will  you  shoot  it?" 

"Sure,"  replied  Bo,  with  her  mouth  full  of  biscuit. 

That  was  how  they  came  to  take  a  long,  slow,  steep 
ride  under  cover  of  dense  spruce.  Helen  liked  the  ride 
after  they  got  on  the  heights.  But  they  did  not  get  to 
any  point  where  she  could  indulge  in  her  pleasure  of  gaz- 
ing afar  over  the  ranges.  Dale  led  up  and  down,  and 
finally  mostly  down,  until  they  came  out  within  sight  of 
sparser  wooded  ridges  with  parks  lying  below  and  streams 
shining  in  the  sun. 

More  than  once  Pedro  had  to  be  harshly  called  by  Dale- 
The  hound  scented  game. 

"Here's  an  old  kill,"  said  Dale,  halting  to  point  at 
some  bleached  bones  scattered  under  a  spruce.  Tufts  of 
grayish-white  hair  lay  strewn  around. 

"What  was  it?"  asked  Bo. 

"Deer,  of  course.  Killed  there  an*  eaten  by  a  lion. 
Sometime  last  fall.  See,  even  the  skull  is  split.  But  I 
could  not  say  that  the  lion  did  it." 

Helen  shuddered.  She  thought  of  the  tame  deer  down 
at  Dale's  camp.  How  beautiful  and  graceful,  and  re- 
sponsive to  kindness! 

They  rode  out  of  the  woods  into  a  grassy  swale  with 
rocks  and  clumps  of  some  green  bushes  bordering  it. 
Here  Pedro  barked,  the  first  time  Helen  had  heard  him. 
The  hair  on  his  neck  bristled,  and  it  required  stern  calls 
from  Dale  to  hold  him  in.  Dale  dismounted 

"Hyar,  Pede,  you  get  back,"  he  ordered.  "I'll  let  you 
go  presently.  .  .  .  Girls,  you're  goin'  to  see  somethin'. 
But  stay  on  your  horses." 

Dale,  with  the  hound  tense  and  bristling  beside  him, 
strode  here  and  there  at  the  edge  of  the  swale.  Presently 
he  halted  on  a  slight  elevation  and  beckoned  for  the  girls 
to  ride  over. 

"Here,  see  where  the  grass  is  pressed  down  all  nice  an* 
round,"  he  said,  pointing.  "A  lion  made  that.  Ha 

H7 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

sneaked  there,  watchin'  for  deer.     That  was  done  this 
mornin'.     Come  on,  now.     Let's  see  if  we  can  trail  him." 

Dale  stooped  now,  studying  the  grass,  and  holding 
Pedro.  Suddenly  he  straightened  up  with  a  flash  in  his 
gray  eyes. 

"Here's  where  he  jumped." 

But  Helen  could  not  see  any  reason  why  Dale  should 
say  that.  The  man  of  the  forest  took  a  long  stride — 
then  another. 

"An'  here's  where  that  lion  lit  on  the  back  of  the  deer. 
It  was  a  big  jump.  See  the  sharp  hoof  tracks  of  the 
deer."  Dale  pressed  aside  the  grass  to  show  dark,  rough, 
fresh  tracks  of  a  deer,  evidently  made  by  violent  action. 

"Come  on,"  called  Dale,  walking  swiftly.  "You're 
sure  goin*  to  see  somethin'  now.  .  .  .  Here's  where  the  deer 
bounded,  carryin'  the  lion." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Bo,  incredulously. 

"The  deer  was  runnin'  here  with  the  lion  on  his  back. 
I'll  prove  it  to  you.  Come  on,  now.  Pedro,  you  stay 
with  me.  Girls,  it's  a  fresh  trail."  Dale  walked  along, 
leading  his  horse,  and  occasionally  he  pointed  down  into 
the  grass.  "There!  See  that!  That's  hair." 

Helen  did  see  some  tufts  of  grayish  hair  scattered  on 
the  ground,  and  she  believed  she  saw  little,  dark  separa- 
tions in  the  grass,  where  an  animal  had  recently  passed. 
All  at  once  Dale  halted.  When  Helen  reached  him  Bo 
was  already  there  and  they  were  gazing  down  at  a  wide, 
flattened  space  in  the  grass.  Even  Helen's  inexperienced 
eyes  could  make  out  evidences  of  a  struggle.  Tufts  of 
gray-white  hair  lay  upon  the  crushed  grass.  Helen  did 
not  need  to  see  any  more,  but  Dale  silently  pointed  to  a 
oatch  of  blood.  Then  he  spoke: 

"The  lion  brought  the  deer  down  here  an'  killed  him. 
Probably  broke  his  neck.  That  deer  ran  a  hundred  yards 
with  the  lion.  See,  here's  the  trail  left  where  the  lion 
dragged  the  deer  off." 

A  well-defined  path  showed  across  the  swale. 

148 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Girls,  you'll  see  that  deer  pretty  quick,"  declared 
Dale,  starting  forward.  "This  work  has  just  been  done. 
Only  a  few  minutes  ago." 

"How  can  you  tell?"  queried  Bo. 

"Look!  See  that  grass.  It  has  been  bent  down  by 
the  deer  bein'  dragged  over  it.  Now  it's  springin'  up." 

Dale's  next  stop  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  swale,  under 
a  spruce  with  low,  spreading  branches.  The  look  of  Pedro 
quickened  Helen's  pulse.  He  was  wild  to  give  chase. 
Fearfully  Helen  looked  where  Dale  pointed,  expecting  to 
see  the  lion.  But  she  saw  instead  a  deer  lying  prostrate 
with  tongue  out  and  sightless  eyes  and  bloody  hair. 

"Girls,  that  lion  heard  us  an'  left.  He's  not  far,"  said 
Dale,  as  he  stooped  to  lift  the  head  of  the  deer.  "Warm! 
Neck  broken.  See  the  lion's  teeth  an'  claw  marks.  .  .  . 
It's  a  doe.  Look  here.  Don't  be  squeamish,  girls.  This 
is  only  an  hourly  incident  of  every-day  life  in  the  forest. 
See  where  the  lion  has  rolled  the  skin  down  as  neat  as  I 
could  do  it,  an'  he'd  just  begun  to  bite  in  there  when  he 
heard  us." 

"What  murderous  work!  The  sight  sickens  me!"  ex- 
claimed Helen. 

"It  is  nature,"  said  Dale,  simply. 

"Let's  kill  the  lion,"  added  Bo. 

For  answer  Dale  took  a  quick  turn  at  their  saddle- 
girths,  and  then,  mounting,  he  called  to  the  hound. 
"Hunt  him  up,  Pedro." 

Like  a  shot  the  hound  was  off. 

"Ride  in  my  tracks  an'  keep  close  to  me,"  called  Dale, 
as  he  wheeled  his  horse. 

"We're  off!"  squealed  Bo,  in  wild  delight,  and  she 
made  her  mount  plunge. 

Helen  urged  her  horse  after  chem  and  they  broke  across 
a  corner  of  the  swale  to  the  woods.  Pedro  was  running 
straight,  with  his  nose  high.  He  let  out  one  short  bark. 
He  headed  into  the  woods,  with  Dale  not  far  behind. 
Helen  was  on  one  of  Dale's  best  horses,  but  that  fact 

149 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

scarcely  manifested  itself,  because  the  others  began  to 
increase  their  lead.  They  entered  the  woods.  It  was 
open,  and  fairly  good  going.  Bo's  horse  ran  as  fast  in 
the  woods  as  he  did  in  the  open.  That  frightened  Helen 
and  she  yelled  to  Bo  to  hold  him  in.  She  yelled  to  deaf 
ears.  That  was  Bo's  great  risk — she  did  not  intend  to 
be  careful.  Suddenly  the  forest  rang  with  Dale's  en- 
couraging yell,  meant  to  aid  the  girls  in  following  him. 
Helen's  horse  caught  the  spirit  of  the  chase.  He  gained 
somewhat  on  Bo,  hurdling  logs,  sometimes  two  at  once. 
Helen's  blood  leaped  with  a  strange  excitement,  utterly 
unfamiliar  and  as  utterly  resistless.  Yet  her  natural 
fear,  and  the  intelligence  that  reckoned  with  the  foolish 
risk  of  this  ride,  shared  alike  in  her  sum  of  sensations. 
She  tried  to  remember  Dale's  caution  about  dodging 
branches  and  snags,  and  sliding  her  knees  back  to  avoid 
knocks  from  trees.  She  barely  missed  some  frightful 
reaching  branches.  She  received  a  hard  knock,  then 
another,  that  unseated  her,  but  frantically  she  held  on 
and  slid  back,  and  at  the  end  of  a  long  run  through  com- 
paratively open  forest  she  got  a  stinging  blow  in  the  face 
from  a  far-spreading  branch  of  pine.  Bo  missed,  by  what 
seemed  only  an  inch,  a  solid  snag  that  would  have  broken 
her  in  two.  Both  Pedro  and  Dale  got  out  of  Helen's 
sight.  Then  Helen,  as  she  began  to  lose  Bo,  felt  that  she 
would  rather  run  greater  risks  than  be  left  behind  to  get 
lost  in  the  forest,  and  she  urged  her  horse.  Dale's  yell 
pealed  back.  Then  it  seemed  even  more  thrilling  to  fol- 
low by  sound  than  by  sight.  Wind  and  brush  tore  at  her. 
The  air  was  heavily  pungent  with  odor  of  pine.  Helen 
heard  a  wild,  full  bay  of  the  hound,  ringing  back,  full  of 
savage  eagerness,  and  she  believed  Pedro  had  roused  out 
the  lion  from  some  covert.  It  lent  more  stir  to  her 
blood  and  it  surely  urged  her  horse  on  faster. 

Then  the  swift  pace  slackened.  A  windfall  of  timber 
delayed  Helen.  She  caught  a  glimpse  of  Dale  far  ahead, 
climbing  a  slope.  The  forest  seemed  full  of  his  ringing 

150 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

yell.  Helen  strangely  wished  for  level  ground  and  th« 
former  swift  motion.  Next  she  saw  Bo  working  down  to 
the  right,  and  Dale's  yell  now  came  from  that  direction. 
Helen  followed,  got  out  of  the  timber,  and  made  better 
time  on  a  gradual  slope  down  to  another  park. 

When  she  reached  the  open  she  saw  Bo  almost  across 
this  narrow  open  ground.  Here  Helen  did  not  need  to 
urge  her  mount.  He  snorted  and  plunged  at  the  level 
and  he  got  to  going  so  fast  that  Helen  would  have 
screamed  aloud  in  mingled  fear  and  delight  if  she  had  not 
been  breathless. 

Her  horse  had  the  bad  luck  to  cross  soft  ground.  He 
went  to  his  knees  and  Helen  sailed  out  of  the  saddle  over 
his  head.  Soft  willows  and  wet  grass  broke  her  fall. 
She  was  surprised  to  find  herself  unhurt.  Up  she  bounded 
and  certainly  did  not  know  this  new  Helen  Rayner.  Her 
horse  was  coming,  and  he  had  patience  with  her,  but  he 
wanted  to  hurry.  Helen  made  the  quickest  mount  of 
her  experience  and  somehow  felt  a  pride  in  it.  She  would 
tell  Bo  that.  But  just  then  Bo  flashed  into  the  woods 
out  of  sight.  Helen  fairly  charged  into  that  green  foliage, 
breaking  brush  and  branches.  She  broke  through  into 
open  forest.  Bo  was  inside,  riding  down  an  aisle  between 
pines  and  spruces.  At  that  juncture  Helen  heard  Dale's 
melodious  yell  near  at  hand.  Coming  into  still  more  open 
forest,  with  rocks  here  and  there,  she  saw  Dale  dismounted 
under  a  pine,  and  Pedro  standing  with  fore  paws  upon  the 
tree-trunk,  and  then  high  up  on  a  branch  a  huge  tawny- 
colored  lion,  just  like  Tom. 

Bo's  horse  slowed  up  and  showed  fear,  but  he  kept  on 
as  far  as  Dale's  horse.  But  Helen's  refused  to  go  any 
nearer.  She  had  difficulty  in  halting  him.  Presently  she 
dismounted  and,  throwing  her  bridle  over  a  stump,  she 
ran  on,  panting  and  fearful,  yet  tingling  all  over,  up  to 
her  sister  and  Dale. 

"Nell,  you  did  pretty  good  for  a  tenderfoot,"  was  Bo'* 
greeting. 

ifti 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"It  was  a  fine  chase,"  said  Dale.  "You  both  rode  well. 
I  wish  you  could  have  seen  the  lion  on  the  ground.  He 
bounded — great  long  bounds  with  his  tail  up  in  the  air — 
very  funny.  An'  Pedro  almost  caught  up  with  him.  That 
scared  me,  because  he  would  have  killed  the  hound. 
Pedro  was  close  to  him  when  he  treed.  An*  there  he  is 
— the  yellow  deer-killer.  He's  a  male  an'  full  grown." 

With  that  Dale  pulled  his  rifle  from  its  saddle-sheath 
and  looked  expectantly  at  Bo.  But  she  was  gazing  with 
great  interest  and  admiration  up  at  the  lion. 

"Isn't  he  just  beautiful?"  she  burst  out.  "Oh,  look  at 
him  spit !  Just  like  a  cat !  Dale,  he  looks  afraid  he  might 
fall  off." 

"He  sure  does.  Lions  are  never  sure  of  their  balance 
in  a  tree.  But  I  never  saw  one  make  a  misstep.  He  knows 
he  doesn't  belong  there." 

To  Helen  the  lion  looked  splendid  perched  up  there. 
He  was  long  and  round  and  graceful  and  tawny.  His 
tongue  hung  out  and  his  plump  sides  heaved,  showing 
what  a  quick,  hard  run  he  had  been  driven  to.  What 
struck  Helen  most  forcibly  about  him  was  something  in 
his  face  as  he  looked  down  at  the  hound.  He  was  scared. 
He  realized  his  peril.  It  was  not  possible  for  Helen  to 
watch  him  killed,  yet  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  beg 
Bo  not  to  shoot.  Helen  confessed  she  was  a  tenderfoot. 

"Get  down,  Bo,  an'  let's  see  how  good  a  shot  you  are." 
said  Dale. 

Bo  slowly  withdrew  her  fascinated  gaze  from  the  lion 
and  looked  with  a  rueful  smile  at  Dale. 

"I've  changed  my  mind.  I  said  I  would  kill  him,  but 
now  I  can't.  He  looks  so — so  different  from  what  I'd 
imagined." 

Dale's  answer  was  a  rare  smile  of  understanding  and 
approval  that  warmed  Helen's  heart  toward  him.  All  the 
same,  he  was  amused.  Sheathing  the  gun,  he  mounted 
his  horse. 

"Come  on,  Pedro,"  he  called.     "Come,  I  tell  you," 

152 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

he  added,  sharply.  "Well,  girls,  we  treed  him,  anyhow, 
an'  it  was  fun.  Now  we'll  ride  back  to  the  deer  he  killed 
an'  pack  a  haunch  to  camp  for  our  own  use." 

"Will  the  lion  go  back  to  his — his  kill,  I  think  you 
called  it?"  asked  Bo. 

"I've  chased  one  away  from  his  kill  half  a  dozen  times. 
Lions  are  not  plentiful  here  an'  they  don't  get  overfed. 
I  reckon  the  balance  is  pretty  even." 

This  last  remark  made  Helen  inquisitive.  And  as  they 
slowly  rode  on  the  back-trail  Dale  talked. 

"You  girls,  bein'  tender-hearted  an'  not  knowin'  the 
life  of  the  forest,  what's  good  an'  what's  bad,  think  it 
was  a  pity  the  poor  deer  was  killed  by  a  murderous  lion. 
But  you're  wrong.  As  I  told  you,  the  lion  is  absolutely 
necessary  to  the  health  an'  joy  of  wild  life — or  deer's 
wild  life,  so  to  speak.  When  deer  were  created  or  came 
into  existence,  then  the  lion  must  have  come,  too.  They 
can't  live  without  each  other.  Wolves,  now,  are  not 
particularly  deer-killers.  They  live  off  elk  an'  any  thin' 
they  can  catch.  So  will  lions,  for  that  matter.  But  I 
mean  lions  follow  the  deer  to  an'  fro  from  winter  to  sum- 
mer feedin'-grounds.  Where  there's  no  deer  you  will 
find  no  lions.  Well,  now,  if  left  alone  deer  would  multiply 
very  fast.  In  a  few  years  there  would  be  hundreds  where 
now  there's  only  one.  An'  in  time,  as  the  generations 
passed,  they'd  lose  the  fear,  the  alertness,  the  speed  an* 
strength,  the  eternal  vigilance  that  is  love  of  life — they'd 
lose  that  an'  begin  to  deteriorate,  an'  disease  would  carry 
them  off.  I  saw  one  season  of  black-tongue  among  deer. 
It  killed  them  off,  an'  I  believe  that  is  one  of  the  diseases 
of  over-production.  The  lions,  now,  are  forever  on  the 
trail  of  the  deer.  They  have  learned.  Wariness  is  an 
instinct  born  in  the  fawn.  It  makes  him  keen,  quick, 
active,  fearful,  an'  so  he  grows  up  strong  an'  healthy  to 
become  the  smooth,  sleek,  beautiful,  soft-eyed,  an'  wild- 
lookin'  deer  you  girls  love  to  watch.  But  if  it  wasn't 
for  the  lions,  the  deer  would  not  thrive.  Only  the  strong- 
11  153 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

est  an'  swiftest  survive.  That  is  the  meanin'  of  nature. 
There  is  always  a  perfect  balance  kept  by  nature.  It  may 
vary  in  different  years,  but  on  the  whole,  in  the  long  years, 
it  averages  an  even  balance." 

"How  wonderfully  you  put  it!"  exclaimed  Bo,  with  all 
her  impulsiveness.  "Oh,  I'm  glad  I  didn't  kill  the  lion." 

"What  you  say  somehow  hurts  me,"  said  Helen,  wist- 
fully, to  the  hunter.  "I  see — I  feel  how  true — how  in- 
evitable it  is.  But  it  changes  my — my  feelings.  Almost 
I'd  rather  not  acquire  such  knowledge  as  yours.  This 
balance  of  nature — how  tragic — how  sad!" 

"But  why?"  asked  Dale.  "You  love  birds,  an'  birds 
are  the  greatest  killers  in  the  forest." 

"Don't  tell  me  that — don't  prove  it,"  implored  Helen. 
"  It  is  not  so  much  the  love  of  life  in  a  deer  or  any  creature, 
and  the  terrible  clinging  to  life,  that  gives  me  distress. 
It  is  suffering.  I  can't  bear  to  see  pain.  I  can  stand  pain 
myself,  but  I  can't  bear  to  see  or  think  of  it." 

"Well,"  replied  Dale,  thoughtfully,  "There  you 
stump  me  again.  I've  lived  long  in  the  forest  an'  when 
a  man's  alone  he  does  a  heap  of  thinkin'.  An'  always  I 
couldn't  understand  a  reason  or  a  meanin'  for  pain.  Of 
all  the  bafflin'  things  of  life,  that  is  the  hardest  to  under- 
stand an'  to  forgive — pain!" 

That  evening,  as  they  sat  in  restful  places  round  the 
camp-fire,  with  the  still  twilight  fading  into  night,  Dale 
seriously  asked  the  girls  what  the  day's  chase  had  meant 
to  them.  His  manner  of  asking  was  productive  of 
thought.  Both  girls  were  silent  for  a  moment. 

"Glorious!"  was  Bo's  brief  and  eloquent  reply. 

"Why?"  asked  Dale,  curiously.  "You  are  a  girl. 
You've  been  used  to  home,  people,  love,  comfort,  safety, 
quiet." 

"Maybe  that  is  just  why  it  was  glorious,"  said  Bo, 
earnestly.  "I  can  hardly  explain.  I  loved  the  motion 
of  the  horse,  the  feel  of  wind  in  my  face,  the  smell  of  the 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

pine,  the  sight  of  slope  and  forest  glade  and  windfall  and 
rocks,  and  the  black  shade  under  the  spruces.  My  blood 
beat  and  burned.  My  teeth  clicked.  My  nerves  all 
quivered.  My  heart  sometimes,  at  dangerous  moments, 
almost  choked  me,  and  all  the  time  it  pounded  hard. 
Now  my  skin  was  hot  and  then  it  was  cold.  But  I  think 
the  best  of  that  chase  for  me  was  that  I  was  on  a  fast 
horse,  guiding  him,  controlling  him.  He  was  alive.  Oh, 
how  I  felt  his  running!" 

"Well,  what  you  say  is  as  natural  to  me  as  if  I  felt  it," 
said  Dale.  "I  wondered.  You're  certainly  full  of  fire. 
An',  Helen,  what  do  you  say?" 

"  Bo  has  answered  you  with  her  feelings,"  replied  Helen. 
"I  could  not  do  that  and  be  honest.  The  fact  that  Bo 
wouldn't  shoot  the  lion  after  we  treed  him  acquits  her. 
Nevertheless,  her  answer  is  purely  physical.  You  know, 
Mr.  Dale,  how  you  talk  about  the  physical.  I  should 
say  my  sister  was  just  a  young,  wild,  highly  sensitive, 
hot-blooded  female  of  the  species.  She  exulted  in  that 
chase  as  an  Indian.  Her  sensations  were  inherited  ones 
— certainly  not  acquired  by  education.  Bo  always  hated 
study.  The  ride  was  a  revelation  to  me.  I  had  a  good 
many  of  Bo's  feelings — though  not  so  strong.  But  over 
against  them  was  the  opposition  of  reason,  of  conscious- 
ness. A  new-born  side  of  my  nature  confronted  me, 
strange,  surprising,  violent,  irresistible.  It  was  as  if  an- 
other side  of  my  personality  suddenly  said:  'Here  I  am. 
Reckon  with  me  now!'  And  there  was  no  use  for  the 
moment  to  oppose  that  strange  side.  I — the  thinking 
Helen  Rayner,  was  powerless.  Oh  yes,  I  had  such 
thoughts  even  when  the  branches  were  stinging  my  face 
and  I  was  thrilling  to  the  bay  of  the  hound.  Once  my 
horse  fell  and  threw  me.  .  .  .  You  needn't  look  alarmed. 
It  was  fine.  I  went  into  a  soft  place  and  was  unhurt. 
But  when  I  was  sailing  through  the  air  a  thought  flashed: 
this  is  the  end  of  me !  It  was  like  a  dream  when  you  are 
falling  dreadfully.  Much  of  what  I  felt  and  thought  on 

155 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

that  chase  must  have  been  because  of  what  I  have  studied 
and  read  and  taught.  The  reality  of  it,  the  action  and 
flash,  were  splendid.  But  fear  of  danger,  pity  for  the 
chased  lion,  consciousness  of  foolish  risk,  of  a  reckless 
disregard  for  the  serious  responsibility  I  have  taken — 
all  these  worked  in  my  mind  and  held  back  what  might 
have  been  a  sheer  physical,  primitive  joy  of  the  wild 
moment." 

Dale  listened  intently,  and  after  Helen  had  finished  he 
studied  the  fire  and  thoughtfully  poked  the  red  embers 
with  his  stick.  His  face  was  still  and  serene,  untroubled 
and  unlined,  but  to  Helen  his  eyes  seemed  sad,  pensive, 
expressive  of  an  unsatisfied  yearning  and  wonder.  She 
had  carefully  and  earnestly  spoken,  because  she  was  very 
curious  to  hear  what  he  might  say. 

"I  understand  you,"  he  replied,  presently.  "An'  I'm 
sure  surprised  that  I  can.  I've  read  my  books — an'  re- 
read them,  but  no  one  ever  talked  like  that  to  me.  What 
I  make  of  it  is  this.  You've  the  same  blood  in  you  that's 
in  Bo.  An'  blood  is  stronger  than  brain.  Remember 
that  blood  is  life.  It  would  be  good  for  you  to  have  it 
run  an'  beat  an'  burn,  as  Bo's  did.  Your  blood  did  that 
a  thousand  years  or  ten  thousand  before  intellect  was  born 
in  your  ancestors.  Instinct  may  not  be  greater  than 
reason,  but  it's  a  million  years  older.  Don't  fight  your 
instincts  so  hard.  If  they  were  not  good  the  God  of 
Creation  would  not  have  given  them  to  you.  To-day 
your  mind  was  full  of  self-restraint  that  did  not  altogether 
restrain.  You  couldn't  forget  yourself.  You  couldn't 
feel  only,  as  Bo  did.  You  couldn't  be  true  to  your  real 
nature." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you,"  replied  Helen,  quickly.  "I 
don't  have  to  be  an  Indian  to  be  true  to  myself." 

"Why,  yes  you  do,"  said  Dale. 

"But  I  couldn't  be  an  Indian,"  declared  Helen,  spirit- 
edly. "  I  couldn't  feel  only,  as  you  say  Bo  did.  I  couldn't 
go  back  in  the  scale,  as  you  hint.  What  would  all  my 

156 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

education  amount  to — though  goodness  knows  it's  little 
enough — if  I  had  no  control  over  primitive  feelings  that 
happened  to  be  born  in  me?" 

"You'll  have  little  or  no  control  over  them  when  the 
right  time  comes,"  replied  Dale.  "Your  sheltered  life 
an'  education  have  led  you  away  from  natural  instincts. 
But  they're  in  you  an'  you'll  learn  the  proof  of  that  out 
here." 

"No.  Not  if  I  lived  a  hundred  years  in  the  West," 
asserted  Helen. 

"But,  child,  do  you  know  what  you're  talkin'  about?*' 

Here  Bo  let  out  a  blissful  peal  of  laughter. 

"Mr.  Dale!"  exclaimed  Helen,  almost  affronted.  She 
was  stirred.  "I  know  myself,  at  least." 

"  But  you  do  not.  You've  no  idea  of  yourself.  You've 
education,  yes,  but  not  in  nature  an'  life.  An*  after  all, 
they  are  the  real  things.  Answer  me,  now — honestly, 
will  you?" 

"  Certainly,  if  I  can.  Some  of  your  questions  are  hard 
to  answer." 

"Have  you  ever  been  starved?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  replied  Helen. 

"Have  you  ever  been  lost  away  from  home?'* 

"No." 

"Have  you  ever  faced  death — real  stark  an'  naked 
death,  close  an'  terrible?" 

"No,  indeed." 

"Have  you  ever  wanted  to  kill  any  one  with  your  bare 
hands?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Dale,  you — you  amaze  me.     No!  .  .  .  No! 

"  I  reckon  I  know  your  answer  to  my  last  question,  but 
I'll  ask  it,  anyhow.  .  .  .  Have  you  ever  been  so  madly  in 
love  with  a  man  that  you  could  not  live  without  him?" 

Bo  fell  off  her  seat  with  a  high,  trilling  laugh.  "Oh, 
you  two  are  great!" 

"Thank  Heaven,  I  haven't  been,"  replied  Helen, 
Shortly. 

J57 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"Then  you  don't  know  anythin'  about  life,"  declared 
Dale,  with  finality. 

Helen  was  not  to  be  put  down  by  that,  dubious  and 
troubled  as  it  made  her. 

"Have  you  experienced  all  those  things?"  she  queried, 
stubbornly. 

"All  but  the  last  one.  Love  never  came  my  way. 
How  could  it?  I  live  alone.  I  seldom  go  to  the  villages 
where  there  are  girls.  No  girl  would  ever  care  for  me.  I 
have  nothin'.  .  .  .  But,  all  the  same,  I  understand  love  a 
little,  just  by  comparison  with  strong  feelin's  I've  lived." 

Helen  watched  the  hunter  and  marveled  at  his  sim- 
plicity. His  sad  and  penetrating  gaze  was  on  the  fire, 
as  if  in  its  white  heart  to  read  the  secret  denied  him.  He 
had  said  that  no  girl  would  ever  love  him.  She  imagined 
he  might  know  considerably  less  about  the  nature  of  girls 
than  of  the  forest. 

"To  come  back  to  myse1*,"  said  Helen,  wanting  to  con- 
tinue the  argument.  "You  declared  I  didn't  know  my- 
self. That  I  would  have  no  self-control.  I  will ! " 

"I  meant  the  big  things  of  life,"  he  said,  patiently. 

"What  things?" 

"I  told  you.  By  askin*  what  had  never  happened  to 
you  I  learned  what  will  happen." 

"Those  experiences  to  come  to  we!"  breathed  Helen, 
incredulously.  ' '  Never ! ' ' 

"  Sister  Nell,  they  sure  will — particularly  the  last-named 
one — the  mad  love,"  chimed  in  Bo,  mischievously,  yet 
believingly. 

Neither  Dale  nor  Helen  appeared  to  hear  her  inter- 
ruption. 

"Let  me  put  it  simpler,"  began  Dale,  evidently  racking 
his  brain  for  analogy.  His  perplexity  appeared  painful 
to  him,  because  he  had  a  great  faith,  a  great  conviction 
that  he  could  not  make  clear.  "Here  I  am,  the  natural 
physical  man,  livin'  in  the  wilds.  An*  here  you  come, 
the  complex,  intellectual  woman.  Remember,  for  my 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

argument's  sake,  that  you're  here.  An'  suppose  circum- 
stances forced  you  to  stay  here.  You'd  fight  the  elements 
with  me  an'  work  with  me  to  sustain  life.  There  must 
be  a  great  change  in  either  you  or  me,  accordin'  to  the 
other's  influence.  An'  can't  you  see  that  change  must 
come  in  you,  not  because  of  anythin*  superior  in  me — I'm 
really  inferior  to  you — but  because  of  our  environment? 
You'd  lose  your  complexity.  An'  in  years  to  come  you'd 
be  a  natural  physical  woman,  because  you'd  live  through 
an'  by  the  physical." 

"Oh  dear,  will  not  education  be  of  help  to  the  Western 
woman?"  queried  Helen,  almost  in  despair. 

"Sure  it  will,"  answered  Dale,  promptly.  "What  the 
West  needs  is  women  who  can  raise  an'  teach  children. 
But  you  don't  understand  me.  You  don't  get  under  your 
skin.  I  reckon  I  can't  make  you  see  my  argument  as  I 
feel  it.  You  take  my  word  for  this,  though.  Sooner  or 
later  you  will  wake  up  an*  forget  yourself.  Remember." 

"Nell,  I'll  bet  you  do,  too,"  said  Bo,  seriously  for  her. 
"It  may  seem  strange  to  you,  but  I  understand  Dale.  I 
feel  what  he  means.  It's  a  sort  of  shock.  Nell,  we're 
not  what  we  seem.  We're  not  what  we  fondly  imagine 
we  are.  We've  lived  too  long  with  people — too  far  away 
from  the  earth.  You  know  the  Bible  says  something  like 
this:  'Dust  thou  art  and  to  dust  thou  shalt  return.' 
Where  do  we  come  from?" 


CHAPTER  XII 

DAYS  passed. 
Every  morning  Helen  awoke  with  a  wondering 
question  as  to  what  this  day  would  bring  forth,  especially 
with  regard  to  possible  news  from  her  uncle.  It  must 
come  sometime  and  she  was  anxious  for  it.  Something 
about  this  simple,  wild  camp  life  had  begun  to  grip  her. 
She  found  herself  shirking  daily  attention  to  the  clothes 
she  had  brought  West.  They  needed  it,  but  she  had 
begun  to  see  how  superficial  they  really  were.  On  the 
other  hand,  camp-fire  tasks  had  come  to  be  a  pleasure - 
She  had  learned  a  great  deal  more  about  them  than  had 
Bo.  Worry  and  dread  were  always  impinging  upon  the 
fringe  of  her  thoughts — always  vaguely  present,  though 
seldom  annoying.  They  were  like  shadows  in  dreams. 
She  wanted  to  get  to  her  uncle's  ranch,  to  take  up  the 
duties  of  her  new  life.  But  she  was  not  prepared  to  be- 
lieve she  would  not  regret  this  wild  experience.  She  must 
get  away  from  that  in  order  to  see  it  clearly,  and  she 
began  to  have  doubts  of  herself. 

Meanwhile  the  active  and  restful  outdoor  life  went  on. 
Bo  leaned  more  and  more  toward  utter  reconciliation  to 
it.  Her  eyes  had  a  wonderful  flash,  like  blue  lightning; 
her  cheeks  were  gold  and  brown;  her  hands  tanned  dark 
as  an  Indian's. 

She  could  vault  upon  the  gray  mustang,  or,  for  that 
matter,  clear  over  his  back.  She  learned  to  shoot  a  rifle 
accurately  enough  to  win  Dale's  praise,  and  vowed  she 
would  like  to  draw  a  bead  upon  a  grizzly  bear  or  upon 

Snake  Anson 

1 60 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Bo,  if  you  met  tnat  grizzly  Dale  said  has  been  prowl- 
ing  round  camp  lately  you'd  run  right  up  a  tree,"  de- 
clared Helen,  one  morning,  when  Bo  seemed  particularly 
boastful. 

"Don't  fool  yourself,"  retorted  Bo. 

"But  I've  seen  you  run  from  a  mouse!" 

"  Sister,  couldn't  I  be  afraid  of  a  mouse  and  not  a  bear?" 

"I  don't  see  how." 

"Well,  bears,  lions,  outlaws,  and  other  wild  beasts  are 
to  be  met  with  here  in  the  West,  and  my  mind's  made  up," 
said  Bo,  in  slow-nodding  deliberation. 

They  argued  as  they  had  always  argued,  Helen  for 
reason  and  common  sense  and  restraint,  Bo  on  the  prin- 
ciple that  if  she  must  fight  it  was  better  to  get  in  the 
first  blow. 

The  morning  on  which  this  argument  took  place  Dale 
was  a  long  time  in  catching  the  horses.  When  he  did,  come 
in  he  shook  his  head  seriously. 

"Some  varmint's  been  chasin'  the  horses,"  he  said,  as 
he  reached  for  his  saddle.  "Did  you  hear  them  snortin* 
an'  runnin'  last  night?" 

Neither  of  the  girls  had  been  awakened. 
'I  missed  one  of  the  colts,"  went  on  Dale,  "an*  I'm 
goin'  to  ride  across  the  park." 

Dale's  movements  were  quick  and  stern.  It  was  sig- 
nificant that  he  chose  his  heavier  rifle,  and.  mounting, 
with  a  sharp  call  to  Pedro,  he  rode  off  without  another 
word  to  the  girls. 

Bo  watched  him  for  a  moment  and  then  began  to  saddle 
the  mustang. 

"You  won't  follow  him?"  asked  Helen,  quickly. 

"  I  sure  will,"  replied  Bo.   "  He  didn't  forbid  it.' 

"But  he  certainly  did  not  want  us." 

"He  might  not  want  you,  but  I'll  bet  he  wouldn't 
object  to  me,  whatever 's  up,"  said  Bo,  shortly. 

"Oh!  So  you  think — "  exclaimed  Helen,  keenly  hurt. 
She  bit  her  tongue  to  keep  back  a  hot  reply.  And  it 

161 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

was  certain  that  a  bursting  gush  of  anger  flooded  over 
her.  Was  she,  then,  such  a  coward?  Did  Dale  think  this 
slip  />f  a  sister,  so  wild  and  wilful,  was  a  stronger  woman 
than  she?  A  moment's  silent  strife  convinced  her  that 
no  doubt  he  thought  so  and  no  doubt  he  was  right.  Then 
the  anger  centered  upon  herself,  and  Helen  neither  under- 
stood nor  trusted  herself. 

The  outcome  proved  an  uncontrollable  impulse.  Helen 
began  to  saddle  her  horse.  She  had  the  task  half  accom- 
plished when  Bo's  call  made  her  look  up. 

"Listen!" 

Helen  heard  a  ringing,  wild  bay  of  the  hound. 

"That's  Pedro,"  she  said,  with  a  thrill. 

"Sure.  He's  running.  We  never  heard  him  bay  like 
that  before." 

"Where's  Dale?" 

"He  rode  out  of  sight  across  there,"  replied  Bo,  point- 
ing. "And  Pedro's  running  toward  us  along  that  slope 
He  must  be  a  mile — two  miles  from  Dale." 

"But  Dale  will  follow." 

"Sure.  But  he'd  need  wings  to  get  near  that  hound 
now.  Pedro  couldn't  have  gone  across  there  with  him. 
.  .  .  Just  listen." 

The  wild  note  of  the  hound  manifestly  stirred  Bo  to 
irrepressible  action.  Snatching  up  Dale's  lighter  rifle,  she 
shoved  it  into  her  saddle-sheath,  and,  leaping  on  the 
mustang,  she  ran  him  over  brush  and  brook,  straight  down 
the  park  toward  the  place  Pedro  was  climbing.  For  an 
instant  Helen  stood  amazed  beyond  speech.  When  Bo 
sailed  over  a  big  log,  like  a  steeple-chaser,  then  Helen 
answered  to  further  unconsidered  impulse  by  frantically 
getting  her  saddle  fastened.  Without  coat  or  hat  she 
mounted.  The  nervous  horse  bolted  almost  before  she 
got  into  the  saddle.  A  strange,  trenchant  trembling 
coursed  through  all  her  veins.  She  wanted  to  scream  for 
Bo  to  wait.  Bo  was  out  of  sight,  but  the  deep,  muddy 
tracks  in  wet  places  and  the  path  through  the  long  grass 

162 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

afforded  Helen  an  easy  trail  to  follow.  In  fact,  her  horse 
needed  no  gu'ding.  He  ran  in  and  out  of  the  straggling 
spruces  along  the  edge  of  the  park,  and  suddenly  wheeled 
around  a  corner  of  trees  to  come  upon  the  gray  mustang 
standing  still.  Bo  was  looking  up  and  listening. 

"There  he  is!"  cried  Bo,  as  the  hound  bayed  ringingly, 
closer  to  them  this  time,  and  she  spurred  away. 

Helen's  horse  followed  without  urging.  He  was  excited. 
His  ears  were  up.  Something  was  in  the  wind.  Helen 
had  never  ridden  along  this  broken  end  of  the  park,  and 
Bo  was  not  easy  to  keep  up  with.  She  led  across  bogs, 
brooks,  swales,  rocky  little  ridges,  through  stretches  of 
timber  and  groves  of  aspen  so  thick  Helen  could  scarcely 
squeeze  through.  Then  Bo  came  out  into  a  large  open 
offshoot  of  the  park,  right  under  the  mountain  slope, 
and  here  she  sat,  her  horse  watching  and  listening.  Helen 
rode  up  to  her,  imagining  once  that  she  had  heard  the 
hound. 

"Look!  Look!"  Bo's  scream  made  her  mustang  stand 
almost  straight  up. 

Helen  gazed  up  to  see  a  big  brown  bear  with  a  frosted 
coat  go  lumbering  across  an  opening  on  the  slope. 

"It's  a  grizzly!  He'll  kill  Pedro!  Oh,  where  is  Dale!" 
cried  Bo,  with  intense  excitement. 

"Bo!  That  bear  is  running  down!  We — we  must  get 
— out  of  his  road,"  panted  Helen,  in  breathless  alarm. 

"Dale  hasn't  had  time  to  be  close.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  wish  he'd 
come!  I  don't  know  what  to  do." 

"Ride  back.    At  least  wait  for  him." 

Just  then  Pedro  spoke  differently,  in  savage  barks,  and 
following  that  came  a  loud  growl  and  crashings  in  the 
brush.  These  sounds  appeared  to  be  not  far  up  the  slope. 

"Nell!  Do  you  hear?  Pedro's  fighting  the  bear," 
burst  out  Bo.  Her  face  paled,  her  eyes  flashed  like  blue 
steel.  "The  bear  '11  kill  him!" 

"Oh,  thax,  would  be  dreadful!"  replied  Helen,  in  dis- 
tress. " But  what  on  earth  can  we  do?" 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"Hel-lo,  Dale!"  called  Bo,  at  the  highest  pitch  of  her 
piercing  voice. 

No  answer  came.  A  heavy  crash  of  brush,  a  rolling  of 
stones,  another  growl  from  the  slope  told  Helen  that  the 
hound  had  brought  the  bear  to  bay. 

"Nell,  I'm  going  up,"  said  Bo,  deliberately. 

"No-no!    Are  you  mad?"  returned  Helen. 

"The  bear  will  kill  Pedro." 

"He  might  kill  you." 

"You  ride  that  way  and  yell  for  Dale,"  rejoined  Bo. 

"What  will— you  do?"  gasped  Helen. 

"I'll  shoot  at  the  bear — scare  him  off.  If  he  chases  me 
he  can't  catch  me  coming  downhill.  Dale  said  that." 

"You're  crazy!"  cried  Helen,  as  Bo  looked  up  the  slope, 
searching  for  open  ground.  Then  she  pulled  the  rifle  from 
its  sheath. 

But  Bo  did  not  hear  or  did  not  care.  She  spurred  the 
mustang,  and  he,  wild  to  run,  flung  grass  and  dirt  from 
his  heels.  What  Helen  would  have  done  then  she  never 
knew,  but  the  fact  was  that  her  horse  bolted  after  the 
mustang.  In  an  instant,  seemingly,  Bo  had  disappeared 
in  the  gold  and  green  of  the  forest  slope.  Helen's  mount 
climbed  on  a  run,  snorting  and  heaving,  through  aspens, 
brush,  and  timber,  to  come  out  into  a  narrow,  long  open- 
ing extending  lengthwise  up  the  slope. 

A  sudden  prolonged  crash  ahead  alarmed  Helen  and 
halted  her  horse.  She  saw  a  shaking  of  aspens.  Then 
a  huge  brown  beast  leaped  as  a  cat  out  of  the  woods.  It 
was  a  bear  of  enormous  size.  Helen's  heart  stopped — 
her  tongue  clove  to  the  roof  of  her  mouth.  The  bear 
turned.  His  mouth  was  open,  red  and  dripping.  He 
looked  shaggy,  gray.  He  let  out  a  terrible  bawl.  Helen's 
every  muscle  froze  stiff.  Her  horse  plunged  high  and 
sidewise,  wheeling  almost  in  the  air,  neighing  his  terror. 
Like  a  stone  she  dropped  from  the  saddle.  She  did  not 
see  the  horse  break  into  the  woods,  but  she  heard  him. 
Her  gaze  never  left  the  bear  even  while  she  was  falling, 

164 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

and  it  seemed  she  alighted  in  an  upright  position  with 
her  back  against  a  bush.  It  upheld  her.  The  bear 
wagged  his  huge  head  from  side  to  side.  Then,  as  the 
hound  barked  close  at  hand,  he  turned  to  run  heavily 
uphill  and  out  of  the  opening. 

The  instant  of  his  disappearance  was  one  of  collapse 
for  Helen.  Frozen  with  horror,  she  had  been  unable  to 
move  or  feel  or  think.  All  at  once  she  was  a  quivering 
mass  of  cold,  helpless  flesh,  wet  with  perspiration,  sick 
with  a  shuddering,  retching,  internal  convulsion,  her  mind 
liberated  from  paralyzing  shock.  The  moment  was  as 
horrible  as  that  in  which  the  bear  had  bawled  his  frightful 
rage.  A  stark,  icy,  black  emotion  seemed  in  possession 
of  her.  She  could  not  lift  a  hand,  yet  all  of  her  body 
appeared  shaking.  There  was  a  fluttering,  a  strangling 
in  her  throat.  The  crushing  weight  that  surrounded  her 
heart  eased  before  she  recovered  use  of  her  limbs.  Then, 
the  naked  and  terrible  thing  was  gone,  like  a  nightmare 
giving  way  to  consciousness.  What  blessed  relief !  Helen 
wildly  gazed  about  her.  The  bear  and  hound  were  out 
of  sight,  and  so  was  her  horse.  She  stood  up  very  dizzy 
and  weak.  Thought  of  Bo  then  seemed  to  revive  her,  to 
shock  different  life  and  feeling  throughout  all  her  cold 
extremities.  She  listened. 

She  heard  a  thudding  of  hoofs  down  the  slope,  then 
Dale's  clear,  strong  call.  She  answered.  It  appeared 
long  before  he  burst  out  of  the  woods,  riding  hard  and 
leading  her  horse.  In  that  time  she  recovered  fully,  and 
when  he  reached  her,  to  put  a  sudden  halt  upon  the  fiery 
Ranger,  she  caught  the  bridle  he  threw  and  swiftly 
mounted  her  horse.  The  feel  of  the  saddle  seemed  dif- 
ferent. Dale's  piercing  gray  glance  thrilled  her  strangely. 

"You're  white.    Are  you  hurt?"  he  said. 

"No.     I  was  scared." 

"But  he  threw  you?" 

"Yes,  he  certainly  threw  me." 

"What  happened?" 

165 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"We  heard  the  hound  and  we  rode  along  the  timber. 
Then  we  saw  the  bear — a  monster — white — coated — " 

"I  know.  It's  a  grizzly.  He  killed  the  colt — your 
pet.  Hurry  now.  What  about  Bo?" 

"Pedro  was  righting  the  bear.  Bo  said  he'd  be  killed. 
She  rode  right  up  here.  My  horse  followed.  I  couldn't 
have  stopped  him.  But  we  lost  Bo.  Right  there  the 
bear  came  out.  He  roared.  My  horse  threw  me  and  ran 
off.  Pedro's  barking  saved  me — my  life,  I  think.  Oh! 
that  was  awful!  Then  the  bear  went  up — there.  .  .  .  And 
you  came." 

"Bo's  followin'  the  hound!"  ejaculated  Dale.  And, 
lifting  his  hands  to  his  mouth,  he  sent  out  a  stentorian 
yell  that  rolled  up  the  slope,  rang  against  the  cliffs,  pealed 
and  broke  and  died  away.  Then  he  waited,  listening. 
From  far  up  the  slope  came  a  faint,  wild  cry,  high-pitched 
and  sweet,  to  create  strange  echoes,  floating  away  to  die 
in  the  ravines. 

"She's  after  him!"  declared  Dale,  grimly. 

"Bo's  got  your  rifle,"  said  Helen.  "Oh,  we  must 
hurry." 

"You  go  back,"  ordered  Dale,  wheeling  his  horse. 

"No!"  Helen  felt  that  word  leave  her  lips  with  the 
force  of  a  bullet. 

Dale  spurred  Ranger  and  took  to  the  open  slope.  Helen 
kept  at  his  heels  until  timber  was  reached.  Here  a  steep 
trail  led  up.  Dale  dismounted. 

"Horse  tracks — bear  tracks — dog  tracks,"  he  said, 
bending  over.  "We'll  have  to  walk  up  here.  It  '11  save 
our  horses  an'  maybe  time,  too." 

"Is  Bo  riding  up  there?"  asked  Helen,  eying  the  steep 
ascent. 

"She  sure  is."  With  that  Dale  started  up,  leading  his 
horse.  Helen  followed.  It  was  rough  and  hard  work. 
She  was  lightly  clad,  yet  soon  she  was  hot,  laboring,  and 
her  heart  began  to  hurt.  When  Dale  halted  to  rest  Helen 
was  just  ready  to  drop.  The  baying  of  the  hound, 

166 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

though  infrequent,  inspirited  her.  But  presently  that 
sound  was  lost.  Dale  said  bear  and  hound  had  gone 
over  the  ridge  and  as  soon  as  the  top  was  gained  he  would 
hear  them  again. 

"Look  there,"  he  said,  presently,  pointing  to  fresh 
tracks,  larger  than  those  made  by  Bo's  mustang.  "Elk 
tracks.  We've  scared  a  big  bull  an'  he's  right  ahead  of 
us.  Look  sharp  an'  you'll  see  him." 

Helen  never  climbed  so  hard  and  fast  before,  and  when 
they  reached  the  ridge-top  she  was  all  tuckered  out.  It 
was  all  she  could  do  to  get  on  her  horse.  Dale  led  along 
the  crest  of  this  wooded  ridge  toward  the  western  end, 
which  was  considerably  higher.  In  places  open  rocky 
ground  split  the  green  timber.  Dale  pointed  toward  a 
promontory. 

Helen  saw  a  splendid  elk  silhouetted  against  the  sky. 
He  was  a  light  gray  over  all  his  hindquarters,  with  shoul- 
ders and  head  black.  His  ponderous,  wide-spread  antlers 
towered  over  him,  adding  to  the  wildness  of  his  magnifi- 
cent poise  as  he  stood  there,  looking  down  into  the  valley, 
no  doubt  listening  for  the  bay  of  the  hound.  When  he 
heard  Dale's  horse  he  gave  one  bound,  gracefully  and 
wonderfully  carrying  his  antlers,  to  disappear  in  the 
green. 

Again  on  a  bare  patch  of  ground  Dale  pointed  down. 
Helen  saw  big  round  tracks,  toeing  in  a  little,  that  gave 
her  a  chill.  She  knew  these  were  grizzly  tracks. 

Hard  riding  was  not  possible  on  this  ridge  crest,  a  fact 
that  gave  Helen  time  to  catch  her  breath.  At  length, 
coming  out  upon  the  very  summit  of  the  mountain,  Dale 
heard  the  hound.  Helen's  eyes  feasted  afar  upon  a  wild 
scene  of  rugged  grandeur,  before  she  looked  down  on  this 
western  slope  at  her  feet  to  see  bare,  gradual  descent, 
leading  down  to  sparsely  wooded  bench  and  on  to  deep- 
green  canon. 

"Ride  hard  now!"  yelled  Dale.  ''I  see  Bo,  an'  I'll  have 
to  ride  to  catch  her." 

167 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Dale  spurred  down  the  slope.  Helen  rode  in  his  tracks, 
and,  though  she  plunged  so  fast  that  she  felt  her  hair 
stand  up  with  fright,  she  saw  him  draw  away  from  her. 
Sometimes  her  horse  slid  on  his  haunches  for  a  few  yards, 
and  at  these  hazardous  moments  she  got  her  feet  out  of 
the  stirrups  so  as  to  fall  free  from  him  if  he  went  down. 
She  let  him  choose  the  way,  while  she  gazed  ahead  at 
Dale,  and  then  farther  on,  in  the  hope  of  seeing  Bo.  At 
last  she  was  rewarded.  Far  down  the  wooded  bench  she 
saw  a  gray  flash  of  the  little  mustang  and  a  bright  glint 
of  Bo's  hair.  Her  heart  swelled.  Dale  would  soon  over- 
haul Bo  and  come  between  her  and  peril.  And  on  the 
instant,  though  Helen  was  unconscious  of  it  then,  a  re- 
markable change  came  over  her  spirit.  Fear  left  her.  And 
a  hot,  exalting,  incomprehensible  something  took  posses- 
sion of  her. 

She  let  the  horse  run,  and  when  he  had  plunged  to  the 
foot  of  that  slope  of  soft  ground  he  broke  out  across  the 
open  bench  at  a  pace  that  made  the  wind  bite  Helen's 
cheeks  and  roar  in  her  ears.  She  lost  sight  of  Dale.  It 
gave  her  a  strange,  grim  exultance.  She  bent  her  eager 
gaze  to  find  the  tracks  of  his  horse,  and  she  found  them. 
Also  she  made  out  the  tracks  of  Bo's  mustang  and  the 
bear  and  the  hound.  Her  horse,  scenting  game,  perhaps, 
and  afraid  to  be  left  alone,  settled  into  a  fleet  and  powerful 
stride,  sailing  over  logs  and  brush.  That  open  bench  had 
looked  short,  but  it  was  long,  and  Helen  rode  down  the 
gradual  descent  at  breakneck  speed.  She  would  not  be 
left  behind.  She  had  awakened  to  a  heedlessness  of  risk. 
Something  burned  steadily  within  her.  A  grim,  hard  anger 
of  joy!  When  she  saw,  far  down  another  open,  gradual 
descent,  that  Dale  had  passed  Bo  and  that  Bo  was  riding 
the  little  mustang  as  never  before,  then  Helen  flamed  with 
a  madness  to  catch  her,  to  beat  her  in  that  wonderful 
chase,  to  show  her  and  Dale  what  there  really  was  in  the 
depths  of  Helen  Rayner. 

Her  ambition  was  to  be  short-lived,  she  divined  from 

168 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

the  lay  of  the  land  ahead,  but  the  ride  she  lived  then  for 
a  flying  mile  was  something  that  would  always  blanch 
her  cheeks  and  prick  her  skin  in  remembrance. 

The  open  ground  was  only  too  short.  That  thundering 
pace  soon  brought  Helen's  horse  to  the  timber.  Here  it 
took  all  her  strength  to  check  his  headlong  flight  over 
deadfalls  and  between  small  jack-pines.  Helen  lost  sight 
of  Bo,  and  she  realized  it  would  take  all  her  wits  to  keep 
from  getting  lost.  She  had  to  follow  the  trail,  and  in 
some  places  it  was  hard  to  see  from  horseback. 

Besides,  her  horse  was  mettlesome,  thoroughly  aroused, 
and  he  wanted  a  free  rein  and  his  own  way.  Helen  tried 
that,  only  to  lose  the  trail  and  to  get  sundry  knocks  from 
trees  and  branches.  She  could  not  hear  the  hound,  nor 
Dale.  The  pines  were  small,  close  together,  and  tough. 
They  were  hard  to  bend.  Helen  hurt  her  hands,  scratched 
her  face,  barked  her  knees.  The  horse  formed  a  habit 
suddenly  of  deciding  to  go  the  way  he  liked  instead  of 
the  way  Helen  guided  him,  and  when  he  plunged  between 
saplings  too  close  to  permit  easy  passage  it  was  exceedingly 
hard  on  her.  That  did  not  make  any  difference  to  Helen. 
Once  worked  into  a  frenzy,  her  blood  stayed  at  high 
pressure.  She  did  not  argue  with  herself  about  a  need  of 
desperate  hurry.  Even  a  blow  on  the  head  that  nearly 
blinded  her  did  not  in  the  least  retard  her.  The  horse 
could  hardly  be  held  and  not  at  all  in  the  few  open 
places. 

At  last  Helen  reached  another  slope.  Coming  out  upon 
a  canon  rim,  she  heard  Dale's  clear  call,  far  down,  and 
Bo's  answering  peal,  high  and  piercing,  with  its  note  of 
exultant  wildness.  Helen  also  heard  the  bear  and  the 
hound  fighting  at  the  bottom  of  this  canon. 

Here  Helen  again  missed  the  tracks  made  by  Dale  and 
Bo.  The  descent  looked  impassable.  She  rode  back  along 
the  rim,  then  forward.  Finally  she  found  where  the  ground 
had  been  plowed  deep  by  hoofs,  down  over  little  banks. 
Helen's  horse  balked  at  these  jumps.  When  she  goaded 
12  169 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

him  over  them  she  went  forward  on  his  neck.  It  seemed 
like  riding  straight  downhill.  The  mad  spirit  of  that  chase 
grew  more  stingingly  keen  to  Helen  as  the  obstacles  grew. 
Then,  once  more  the  bay  of  the  hound  and  the  bawl  of 
the  bear  made  a  demon  of  her  horse.  He  snorted  a  shrill 
defiance.  He  plunged  with  fore  hoofs  in  the  air.  He  slid 
and  broke  a  way  down  the  steep,  soft  banks,  through  the 
thick  brush  and  thick  clusters  of  saplings,  sending  loose 
rocks  and  earth  into  avalanches  ahead  of  him.  He  fell 
over  one  bank,  but  a  thicket  of  aspens  upheld  him  so  that 
he  rebounded  and  gained  his  feet.  The  sounds  of  fight 
ceased,  but  Dale's  thrilling  call  floated  up  on  the  pine- 
scented  air. 

Before  Helen  realized  it  she  was  at  the  foot  of  the  slope, 
in  a  narrow  canon-bed,  full  of  rocks  and  trees,  with  a  soft 
roar  of  running  water  filling  her  ears.  Tracks  were  every- 
where, and  when  she  came  to  the  first  open  place  she  saw 
where  the  grizzly  had  plunged  off  a  sandy  bar  into  the 
water.  Here  he  had  fought  Pedro.  Signs  of  that  battle 
were  easy  to  read.  Helen  saw  where  his  huge  tracks, 
still  wet,  led  up  the  opposite  sandy  bank. 

Then  down-stream  Helen  did  some  more  reckless  and 
splendid  riding.  On  level  ground  the  horse  was  great. 
Once  he  leaped  clear  across  the  brook.  Every  plunge, 
every  turn  Helen  expected  to  come  upon  Dale  and  Bo 
facing  the  bear.  The  canon  narrowed,  the  stream-bed 
deepened.  She  had  to  slow  down  to  get  through  the  trees 
and  rocks.  Quite  unexpectedly  she  rode  pell-mell  upon 
Dale  and  Bo  and  the  panting  Pedro.  Her  horse  plunged 
to  a  halt,  answering  the  shrill  neighs  of  the  other  horses. 

Dale  gazed  in  admiring  amazement  at  Helen. 

"  Say,  did  you  meet  the  bear  again?"  he  queried,  blankly. 

"No.  Didn't— you— kill  him?"  panted  Helen,  slowly 
sagging  in  her  saddle. 

"He  got  away  in  the  rocks.  Rough  country  down 
here." 

Helen  slid  off  her  horse  and  fell  with  a  little  panting 

170 


THE  MAN  OF  THR  FOREST 

cry  of  relief  She  saw  that  she  was  bloody,  dirty,  di- 
sheveled, and  wringing  wet  with  perspiration.  Her  riding- 
habit  was  torn  into  tatters.  Every  muscle  seemed  to 
burn  and  sting,  and  all  her  bones  seemed  broken.  But 
it  was  worth  all  this  to  meet  Dale's  penetrating  glance,  to 
see  Bo's  utter,  incredulous  astonishment. 

"Nell— Rayner!"  gasped  Bo. 

"  If — my  horse  'd  been — any  good — in  the  woods,** 
panted  Helen,  "I'd  not  lost — so  much  time — riding  down 
this  mountain.  And  I'd  caught  you — beat  you." 

"Girl,  did  you  ride  down  this  last  slope?"  queried  Dale. 

"I  sure  did,"  replied  Helen,  smiling. 

"We  walked  every  step  of  the  way,  and  was  lucky  to 
get  down  at  that,"  responded  Dale,  gravely.  "No  horse 
should  have  been  ridden  down  there.  Why,  he  must  have 
slid  down." 

"We  slid— yes.     But  I  stayed  on  him." 

Bo's  incredulity  changed  to  wondering,  speechless  ad- 
miration. And  Dale's  rare  smile  changed  his  gravity. 

"I'm  sorry.  It  was  rash  of  me.  I  thought  you'd  go 
back.  .  .  .  But  all's  well  that  ends  well.  .  .  .  Helen,  did  you 
wake  up  to-day?" 

She  dropped  her  eyes,  not  caring  to  meet  the  question* 
ing  gaze  upon  her. 

"  Maybe — a  little,"  she  replied,  and  she  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands.  Remembrance  u£  his  questions — of  his 
assurance  that  she  did  not  know  the  real  meaning  of  life 
— of  her  stubborn  antagonism — made  her  somehow 
ashamed.  But  it  was  riot  for  long. 

"The  chase  was  great,"  she  said.  "I  did  not  know 
myself.  You  were  right." 

"  In  how  many  ways  did  you  find  me  right?"  he  asked. 

"I  think  all — but  one,"  she  replied,  with  a  laugh  and 
a  shudder.  "I'm  near  starved  now — I  was  so  furious  at 
Bo  that  I  could  have  choked  her.  I  faced  that  horrible 
brute.  ...  Oh,  I  know  what  it  is  to  fear  death!  ...  I  was 
lost  twice  on  the  ride— absolutely  lost.  That's  all." 

171 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Bo  found  her  tongue.  "The  last  thing  was  for  you  to 
fell  wildly  in  love,  wasn't  it?" 

"According  to  Dale,  I  must  add  that  to  my  new  ex- 
periences of  to-day — before  I  can  know  real  life,"  replied 
Helen,  demurely. 

1  he  hunter  turned  away.    "  Let  us  go,"  he  said,  soberly. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A?TER  more  days  of  riding  the  grassy  level  of  that 
wonderfully  gold  and  purple  park,  and  dreamily 
listening  by  day  to  the  ever-low  and  ever-changing  mur- 
mur of  the  waterfall,  and  by  night  to  the  wild,  lonely 
mourn  of  a  hunting  wolf,  and  climbing  to  the  dizzy 
heights  where  the  wind  stung  sweetly,  Helen  Rayner  lost 
track  of  time  and  forgot  her  peril. 

Roy  Beeman  did  not  return.  If  occasionally  Dale 
mentioned  Roy  and  his  quest,  the  girls  had  little  to  say 
beyond  a  recurrent  anxiety  for  the  old  uncle,  and  then 
they  forgot  again.  Paradise  Park,  lived  in  a  little  while 
at  that  season  of  the  year,  would  have  claimed  any  one, 
and  ever  afterward  haunted  sleeping  or  waking  dreams. 

Bo  gave  up  to  the  wild  life,  to  the  horses  and  rides,  to 
the  many  pets,  and  especially  to  the  cougar,  Tom.  The 
big  cat  followed  her  everywhere,  played  with  her,  rolling 
and  pawing,  kitten-like,  and  he  would  lay  his  massive 
head  in  her  lap  to  purr  his  content.  Bo  had  little  fear  of 
anything,  and  here  in  the  wilds  she  soon  lost  that. 

Another  of  Dale's  pets  was  a  half-grown  black  bear 
named  Muss.  He  was  abnormally  jealous  of  little  Bud 
and  he  had  a  well-developed  hatred  of  Tom,  otherwise 
he  was  a  very  good-tempered  bear,  and  enjoyed  Dale's 
impartial  regard.  Tom,  however,  chased  Muss  out  of 
camp  whenever  Dale's  back  was  turned,  and  sometimes 
Muss  stayed  away,  shifting  for  himself.  With  the  advent 
of  Bo,  who  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  on  the  animals,  Muss 
manifestly  found  the  camp  more  attractive.  Whereupon^ 
Dale  predicted  trouble  between  Tom  and  Muss. 

i73 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Bo  liked  nothing  better  than  a  rough-and-tumble  frolic 
with  the  black  bear.  Muss  was  not  very  big  nor  very 
heavy,  and  in  a  wrestling  bout  with  the  strong  and  wiry 
girl  he  sometimes  came  out  second  best.  It  spoke  well 
of  him  that  he  seemed  to  be  careful  not  to  hurt  Bo.  He 
never  bit  or  scratched,  though  he  sometimes  gave  her 
sounding  slaps  with  his  paws.  Whereupon,  Bo  would 
clench  her  gauntleted  fists  and  sail  into  him  in  earnest. 

One  afternoon  before  the  early  supper  they  always  had, 
Dale  and  Helen  were  watching  Bo  teasing  the  bear.  She 
was  in  her  most  vixenish  mood,  full  of  life  and  fight. 
Tom  lay  his  long  length  on  the  grass,  watching  with  nar- 
row, gleaming  eyes. 

When  Bo  and  Muss  locked  in  an  embrace  and  went 
down  to  roll  over  and  over,  Dale  called  Helen's  attention 
to  the  cougar. 

"Tom's  jealous.  It's  strange  how  animals  are  like 
people.  Pretty  soon  I'll  have  to  corral  Muss,  or  there'll 
be  a  fight." 

lielen  could  not  see  anything  wrong  with  Tom  except 
that  he  did  not  look  playful. 

During  supper-time  both  bear  and  cougar  disappeared, 
though  this  was  not  remarked  until  afterward.  Dale 
whistled  and  called,  but  the  rival  pets  did  not  return. 
Next  morning  Tom  was  there,  curled  up  snugly  at  the 
foot  of  Bo's  bed,  and  when  she  arose  he  followed  her 
around  as  usual.  But  Muss  did  not  return. 

The  circumstance  made  Dale  anxious.  He  left  camp, 
taking  Tom  with  him,  and  upon  returning  stated  that  he 
had  followed  Muss's  track  as  far  as  possible,  and  then 
had  tried  to  put  Tom  on  the  trail,  but  the  cougar  would 
not  or  could  not  follow  it.  Dale  said  Tom  never  liked  a 
bear  trail,  anyway,  cougars  and  bears  being  common 
enemies.  So,  whether  by  accident  or  design,  Bo  lost  one 
of  her  playmates. 

The  hunter  searched  some  of  the  slopes  next  day  and 
went  up  on  one  of  the  mountains.  He  did  not  dis- 
174 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

cover  any  sign  of  Muss,  but  he  said  he  had  found  some- 
thing else. 

"Do  you  girls  want  some  more  real  excitement?"  he 
asked. 

Helen  smiled  her  acquiescence  and  Bo  replied  with  one 
of  her  forceful  speeches. 

"Don't  mind  bein'  good  an'  scared?"  he  went  on. 

"You  can't  scare  me,"  bantered  Bo.  But  Helen  looked 
doubtful. 

"Up  in  one  of  the  parks  I  ran  across  one  of  my  horses 
—a  lame  bay  you  haven't  seen.  Well,  he  had  been  killed 
by  that  old  silvertip.  The  one  we  chased.  Hadn't  been 
dead  over  an  hour.  Blood  was  still  runnin'  an'  only  a  little 
meat  eaten.  That  bear  heard  me  or  saw  me  an'  made  off 
into  the  woods.  But  he'll  come  back  to-night.  I'm  goin' 
up  there,  lay  for  him,  an'  kill  him  this  time.  Reckon  you'd 
better  go,  because  I  don't  want  to  leave  you  here  alone 
at  night." 

"Are  you  going  to  take  Tom?"  asked  Bo. 

"No.  The  bear  might  get  his  scent.  An',  besides, 
Tom  ain't  reliable  on  bears.  I'll  leave  Pedro  home,  too." 

When  they  had  hurried  supper,  and  Dale  had  gotten 
in  the  horses,  the  sun  had  set  and  the  valley  was  shadowing 
low  down,  while  the  ramparts  were  still  golden. 

The  long  zigzag  trail  Dale  followed  up  the  slope  took 
nearly  an  hour  to  climb,  so  that  when  that  was  surmounted 
and  he  led  out  of  the  woods  twilight  had  fallen.  A  rolling 
park  extended  as  far  as  Helen  could  see,  bordered  by  for- 
est that  in  places  sent  out  straggling  stretches  of  trees. 
Here  and  there,  like  islands,  were  isolated  patches  of 
timber. 

At  ten  thousand  feet  elevation  the  twilight  of  this  clear 
and  cold  night  was  a  rich  and  rare  atmospheric  effect. 
It  looked  as  if  it  was  seen  through  perfectly  clear  smoked 
glass.  Objects  were  singularly  visible,  even  at  long  range, 
and  seemed  magnified.  In  the  west,  where  the  afterglow 
of  sunset  lingered  over  the  dark,  ragged,  spruce-speared 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

horizon-line,  there  was  such  a  transparent  golden  line 
melting  into  vivid  star-fired  blue  that  Helen  could  only 
gaze  and  gaze  in  wondering  admiration. 

Dale  spurred  his  horse  into  a  lope  and  the  spirited 
mounts  of  the  girls  kept  up  with  him.  The  ground  was 
rough,  with  tufts  of  grass  growing  close  together,  yet  the 
horses  did  not  stumble.  Their  action  and  snorting  be- 
trayed excitement.  Dale  led  around  several  clumps  of 
timber,  up  a  long  grassy  swale,  and  then  straight  west- 
ward across  an  open  flat  toward  where  the  dark-fringed 
forest-line  raised  itself  wild  and  clear  against  the  cold 
sky.  The  horses  went  swiftly,  and  the  wind  cut  like  a 
blade  of  ice.  Helen  could  barely  get  her  breath  and  she 
panted  as  if  she  had  just  climbed  a  labor  some  hill.  The 
stars  began  to  blink  out  of  the  blue,  and  the  gold  paled 
somewhat,  and  yet  twilight  lingered.  It  seemed  long 
across  that  flat,  but  really  was  short.  Coming  to  a  thin 
line  of  trees  that  led  down  over  a  slope  to  a  deeper  but 
still  isolated  patch  of  woods,  Dale  dismounted  and  tied 
his  horse.  When  the  girls  got  off  he  haltered  their  horses 
also. 

"Stick  close  to  me  an*  put  your  feet  down  easy,"  he 
whispered.  How  tall  and  dark  he  loomed  in  the  fading 
light!  Helen  thrilled,  as  she  had  often  of  late,  at  the 
strange,  potential  force  of  the  man.  Stepping  softly, 
without  the  least  sound,  Dale  entered  this  straggly  bit  of 
woods,  which  appeared  to  have  narrow  byways  and  nooks. 
Then  presently  he  came  to  the  top  of  a  well-wooded  slope, 
dark  as  pitch,  apparently.  But  as  Helen  followed  she 
perceived  the  trees,  and  they  were  thin  dwarf  spruce, 
partly  dead.  The  slope  was  soft  and  springy,  easy  to 
step  upon  without  noise.  Dale  went  so  cautiously  that 
Helen  could  not  hear  him,  and  sometimes  in  the  gloom 
she  could  not  see  him.  Then  the  chill  thrills  ran  over  her. 
Bo  kept  holding  on  to  Helen,  which  fact  hampered  Helen 
as  well  as  worked  somewhat  to  disprove  Bo's  boast.  At 
last  level  ground  was  reached.  Helen  made  out  a  light- 

176 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

gray  background  crossed  by  black  bars.  Another  glance 
showed  this  to  be  the  dark  tree-trunks  against  the  open 
park. 

Dale  halted,  and  w'th  a  touch  brought  Helen  to  a 
straining  pause.  He  was  listening.  It  seemed  wonderful 
to  watch  him  bend  his  head  and  stand  as  silent  and  mo- 
tionless as  one  of  the  dark  trees. 

"He's  not  there  yet,"  Dale  whispered,  and  he  stepped 
forward  very  slowly.  Helen  and  Bo  began  to  come  up 
against  thin  dead  branches  that  were  invisible  and  then 
cracked.  Then  Dale  knelt  down,  seemed  to  melt  into  the 
ground. 

"You'll  have  to  crawl,"  he  whispered. 

How  strange  and  thrilling  that  was  for  Helen,  and  hard 
work!  The  ground  bore  twigs  and  dead  branches,  which 
had  to  be  carefully  crawled  over;  and  lying  flat,  as  was 
necessary,  it  took  prodigious  effort  to  drag  her  body  inch 
by  inch.  Like  a  huge  snake,  Dale  wormed  his  way  along. 

Gradually  the  wood  lightened.  They  were  nearing  the 
edge  of  the  park.  Helen  now  saw  a  strip  of  open  with  a 
high,  black  wall  of  spruce  beyond.  The  afterglow  flashed 
or  changed,  like  a  dimming  northern  light,  and  then  failed. 
Dale  crawled  on  farther  to  halt  at  length  between  two 
tree-trunks  at  the  edge  of  the  wood. 

"Come  up  beside  me,"  he  whispered. 

Helen  crawled  on,  and  presently  Bo  was  beside  her 
panting,  with  pale  face  and  great,  staring  eyes,  plain  to 
be  seen  in  the  wan  light. 

"Moon's  comin'  up.  We're  just  in  time.  The  old 
grizzly's  not  there  yet,  but  I  see  coyotes.  Look." 

Dale  pointed  across  the  open  neck  of  park  to  a  dim 
blurred  patch  standing  apart  some  little  distance  from 
the  black  wall. 

"That's  the  dead  horse,"  whispered  Dale.  "An'  if 
you  watch  close  you  can  see  the  coyotes.  They're  gray 
an'  they  move.  .  .  .  Can't  you  hear  them?" 

Helen's  excited  ears,  so  full  of  throbs  and  imaginings, 

177 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

presently  registered  low  snaps  and  snarls.  Bo  gave  ha 
arm  a  squeeze. 

"  I  hear  them.  They're  fighting.  Oh,  gee !"  she  panted, 
and  drew  a  long,  full  breath  of  unntterable  excitement. 

"Keep  quiet  now  an'  watch  an'  listen,"  said  the  hunter. 

Slowly  the  black,  ragged  forest-line  seemed  to  grow 
blacker  and  lift;  slowly  the  gray  neck  of  park  lightened 
under  some  invisible  influence;  slowly  the  stars  paled  and 
the  sky  filled  over.  Somewhere  the  moon  was  rising. 
And  slowly  that  vague  blurred  patch  grew  a  little  clearer. 

Through  the  tips  of  the  spruce,  now  seen  to  be  rather 
close  at  hand,  shone  a  slender,  silver  crescent  moonr 
darkening,  hiding,  shining  again,  climbing  until  its  ex- 
quisite sickle-point  topped  the  trees,  and  then,  magically, 
it  cleared  them,  radiant  and  cold.  While  the  eastern 
black  wall  shaded  still  blacker,  the  park  blanched  and 
the  border-line  opposite  began  to  stand  out  as  trees. 

"Look!  Look!"  cried  Bo,  very  low  and  fearfully,  as 
she  pointed. 

"Not  so  loud,"  whispered  Dale. 

"But  I  see  something!" 

"Keep  quiet,"  he  admonished. 

Helen,  in  the  direction  Bo  pointed,  could  not  see  any- 
thing but  moon-blanched  bare  ground,  rising  close  at 
hand  to  a  little  ridge. 

"  Lie  still,"  whispered  Dale.  "  I'm  goin'  to  crawl  around 
to  get  a  look  from  another  angle.  I'll  be  right  back." 

He  moved  noiselessly  backward  and  disappeared.  With 
him  gone,  Helen  felt  a  palpitating  of  her  heart  and  a  prick- 
ling of  her  skin. 

"Oh,  my!  Nsll!  Look!"  whispered  Bo,  in  fright.  "I 
know  I  saw  something." 

On  top  of  the  little  ridge  a  round  object  moved  slowiy, 
getting  farther  out  into  the  light.  Helen  watched  with 
suspended  breath.  It  moved  out  to  be  silhouetted  against 
the  sky — apparently  a  huge,  round,  bristling  animal, 
frosty  in  color.  One  instant  it  seemed  huge — the  next 

178 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

small — then  close  at  hand — and  far  away.  It  swerved  to 
come  directly  toward  them.  Suddenly  Helen  realized 
that  the  beast  was  not  a  dozen  yards  distant.  She  was 
just  beginning  a  new  experience — a  real  and  horrifying 
terror  in  which  her  blood  curdled,  her  heart  gave  a  tre- 
mendous leap  and  then  stood  still,  and  she  wanted  to 
fly,  but  was  rooted  to  the  spot — when  Dale  returned  to 
her  side. 

"That's  a  pesky  porcupine,"  he  whispered.  "Almost 
crawled  over  you.  He  sure  would  have  stuck  you  full  of 
quills." 

Whereupon  he  threw  a  stick  at  the  animal.  It  bounced 
straight  up  to  turn  round  with  startling  quickness,  and 
it  gave  forth  a  rattling  sound;  then  it  crawled  out  of 
sight. 

"For — cu — pine!"  whispered  Bo,  pantingly.  "It  might 
— as  well — have  been — an  elephant!" 

Helen  uttered  a  long,  eloquent  sigh.  She  would  not 
have  cared  to  describe  her  emotions  at  sight  of  a  harmless 
hedgehog. 

"  Listen  P'  warned  Dale,  very  low.  His  big  hand  closed 
over  Helen's  gauntleted  one.  "There  you  have  the  real 
cry  of  the  wild." 

Sharp  and  cold  on  the  night  air  split  the  cry  of  a  wolf, 
distant,  yet  wonderfully  distinct.  How  wild  and  mournful 
and  hungry!  How  marvelously  pure!  Helen  shuddered 
through  all  her  frame  with  the  thrill  of  its  music,  the  wild 
and  unutterable  and  deep  emotions  it  aroused.  Again 
a,  sound  of  this  forest  had  pierced  beyond  her  life,  back 
into  the  dim  remote  past  from  which  she  had  come. 

The  cry  was  not  repeated.  The  coyotes  were  still.  And 
a  silence  fell,  absolutely  unbroken. 

Dale  nudged  Helen,  and  then  reached  over  to  give  Bo 
a  tap.  He  was  peering  keenly  ahead  and  his  strained  in- 
tensity could  be  felt.  Helen  looked  with  all  her  might  and 
she  saw  the  shadowy  gray  forms  of  the  coyotes  skulk 
away,  out  of  the  moonlight  into  the  gloom  of  the  woods, 

i79 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

where  they  disappeared.  Not  only  Dale's  intensity,  but 
the  very  silence,  the  wildness  of  the  moment  and  place, 
seemed  fraught  with  wonderful  potency.  Bo  must  have 
felt  it,  too,  for  she  was  trembling  all  over,  and  holding 
tightly  to  Helen,  and  breathing  quick  and  fast. 

"A-huh!"  muttered  Dale,  under  his  breath. 

Helen  caught  the  relief  and  certainty  in  his  exclamation, 
and  she  divined,  then,  something  of  what  the  moment 
must  have  been  to  a  hunter. 

Then  her  roving,  alert  glance  was  arrested  by  a  looming 
gray  shadow  coming  out  of  the  forest.  It  moved,  but 
surely  that  huge  thing  could  not  be  a  bear.  It  passed 
out  of  gloom  into  silver  moonlight.  Helen's  heart  bounded. 
For  it  was  a  great  frosty-coated  bear  lumbering  along 
toward  the  dead  horse.  Instinctively  Helen's  hand 
sought  the  arm  of  the  hunter.  It  felt  like  iron  under  a 
rippling  surface.  The  touch  eased  away  the  oppression 
over  her  lungs,  the  tightness  of  her  throat.  What  must 
have  been  fear  left  her,  and  only  a  powerful  excitement 
remained.  A  sharp  expulsion  of  breath  from  Bo  and  a 
violent  jerk  of  her  frame  were  signs  that  she  had  sighted 
the  grizzly. 

In  the  moonlight  he  looked  of  immense  size,  and  that 
wild  park  with  the  gloomy  blackness  of  forest  furnished 
a  fit  setting  for  him.  Helen's  quick  mind,  so  taken  up 
with  emotion,  still  had  a  thought  for  the  wonder  and  the 
meaning  of  that  scene.  She  wanted  the  bear  killed,  yet 
that  seemed  a  pity. 

He  had  a  wagging,  rolling,  slow  walk  which  took  several 
moments  to  reach  his  quarry.  When  at  length  he  reached 
it  he  walked  around  with  sniffs  plainly  heard  and  then  a 
cross  growl.  Evidently  he  had  discovered  that  his  meal 
had  been  messed  over.  As  a  whole  the  big  bear  could  be 
seen  distinctly,  but  only  in  outline  and  color.  The  dis- 
tance was  perhaps  two  hundred  yards.  Then  it  looked  as 
if  he  had  begun  to  tug  at  the  carcass.  Indeed,  he  was 
dragging  it,  very  ?1owly,  but  surely. 

1 80 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Look  at  that!"  whispered  Dale.  "If  he  ain't  strong! 
» .  .  Reckon  I'll  have  to  stop  him." 

The  grizzly,  however,  stopped  of  his  own  accord,  just 
outside  of  the  shadow-line  of  the  forest.  Then  he  hunched 
in  a  big  frosty  heap  over  his  prey  and  began  to  tear  and 
rend. 

"  Jess  was  a  mighty  good  horse,"  muttered  Dale,  grimly; 
"too  good  to  make  a  meal  for  a  hog  silvertip." 

Then  the  hunter  silently  rose  to  a  kneeling  position, 
swinging  the  rifle  in  front  of  him.  He  glanced  up  into 
the  low  branches  of  the  tree  overhead. 

"Girls,  there's  no  tellin'  what  a  grizzly  will  do.  If  I 
yell,  you  climb  up  in  this  tree,  an'  do  it  quick." 

With  that  he  leveled  the  rifle,  resting  his  left  elbow  on 
his  knee.  The  front  end  of  the  rifle,  reaching  out  of  the 
shade,  shone  silver  in  the  moonlight.  Man  and  weapon 
became  still  as  stone.  Helen  held  her  breath.  But  Dale 
relaxed,  lowering  the  barrel. 

"Can't  see  the  sights  very  well,"  he  whispered,  shaking 
his  head.  "Remember,  now — if  I  yell  you  climb!" 

Again  he  aimed  and  slowly  grew  rigid.  Helen  could  not 
take  her  fascinated  eyes  off  him.  He  knelt,  bareheaded, 
and  in  the  shadow  she  could  make  out  the  gleam  of  his 
clear-cut  profile,  stern  and  cold. 

A  streak  of  fire  and  a  heavy  report  startled  her.  Then 
she  heard  the  bullet  hit.  Shifting  her  glance,  she  saw 
the  bear  lurch  with  convulsive  action,  rearing  on  his  hind 
legs.  Loud  clicking  snaps  must  have  been  a  clashing  of 
his  jaws  in  rage.  But  there  was  no  other  sound.  Then 
again  Dale's  heavy  gun  boomed.  Helen  heard  again  that 
singular  spatting  thud  of  striking  lead.  The  bear  went 
down  with  a  flop  as  if  he  had  been  dealt  a  terrific  blow. 
But  just  as  quickly  he  was  up  on  all-fours  and  began  to 
whirl  with  hoarse,  savage  bawls  of  agony  and  fury.  His 
action  quickly  carried  him  out  of  the  moonlight  into  the 
shadow,  where  he  disappeared.  There  the  bawls  gave 
place  to  gnashing  snarls,  and  crashings  in  the  bmshv 

181 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

and  snapping  of  branches,  as  he  made  his  way  into 
the  forest. 

"Sure  he's  mad,"  said  Dale,  rising  to  his  feet.  "An'  I 
reckon  hard  hit.  But  I  won't  follow  him  to-night." 

Both  the  girls  got  up,  and  Helen  found  she  was  shaky 
on  her  feet  and  very  cold. 

"Oh-h,  wasn't — it — won-wonder-ful ! "  cried  Bo. 

"Are  you  scared?  Your  teeth  are  chatterin',"  queried 
Dale. 

"I'm— cold." 

"Well,  it  sure  is  cold,  all  right,"  he  responded.  "Now 
the  fun's  over,  you'll  feel  it.  ...  Nell,  you're  froze,  too?" 

Helen  nodded.  She  was,  indeed,  as  cold  as  she  had 
ever  been  before.  But  that  did  not  prevent  a  strange 
warmness  along  her  veins  and  a  quickened  pulse,  the 
cr.use  of  which  she  did  not  conjecture. 

"l>,t's  rustle,"  said  Dale,  and  led  the  way  out  of  the 
wood  and  skirted  its  edge  around  to  the  slope.  There 
they  climbed  to  the  flat,  and  went  through  the  straggling 
line  of  trees  to  where  the  horses  were  tethered. 

Up  here  the  wind  began  to  blow,  not  hard  through  the 
forest,  but  still  strong  and  steady  out  in  the  open,  and 
bitterly  cold.  Dale  helped  Bo  to  mount,  and  then  Helen. 

"  I'm— numb,"  she  said.     "  I'll  fall  off— sure." 

"No.  You'll  be  warm  in  a  jiffy,"  he  replied,  "because 
we'll  ride  some  goin'  back.  Let  Ranger  pick  the  way 
an'  you  hang  on." 

With  Ranger's  first  jump  Helen's  blood  began  to  run. 
Out  he  shot,  his  lean,  dark  head  beside  Dale's  horse. 
The  wild  park  lay  clear  and  bright  in  the  moonlight,  with 
strange,  silvery  radiance  on  the  grass.  The  patches  of 
timber,  like  spired  black  islands  in  a  moon-blanched  lake, 
seemed  to  harbor  shadows,  and  places  for  bears  to  hide, 
ready  to  spring  out.  As  Helen  neared  each  little  grove 
her  pulses  shook  and  her  heart  beat.  Half  a  mile  of  rapid 
riding  burned  out  the  cold.  And  all  seemed  glorious — 
the  sailing  moon,  white  in  a  dark-blue  sky,  the  white^ 

182 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

passionless  stars,  so  solemn,  so  far  away,  the  beckoning 
fringe  of  forest-land  at  once  mysterious  and  friendly,  and 
the  fleet  horses,  running  with  soft,  rhythmic  thuds  over 
the  grass,  leaping  the  ditches  and  the  hollows,  making  the 
bitter  wind  sting  and  cut.  Coming  up  that  park  the  ride 
had  been  long;  going  back  was  as  short  as  it  was  thrilling. 
In  Helen,  experiences  gathered  realization  slowly,  and  it 
was  this  swift  ride,  the  horses  neck  and  neck,  and  all  the 
wildness  and  beauty,  that  completed  the  slow,  insidious 
work  of  years.  The  tears  of  excitement  froze  on  her 
cheeks  and  her  heart  heaved  full.  All  that  pertained  to 
this  night  got  into  her  blood.  It  was  only  to  feel,  to  livs 
now,  but  it  could  be  understood  and  remembered  forever 
afterward. 

Dale's  horse,  a  little  in  advance,  sailed  over  a  ditch. 
Ranger  made  a  splendid  leap,  but  he  alighted  amon^  some 
grassy  tufts  and  fell.  Helen  shot  over  his  head.  She 
struck  lengthwise,  her  arms  stretched,  and  slid  hard  to  a 
shocking  impact  that  stunned  her. 

Bo's  scream  rang  in  her  ears;  she  felt  the  wet  grass 
under  her  face  and  then  the  strong  hands  that  lifted  her. 
Dale  loomed  over  her,  bending  down  to  look  into  her  face; 
Bo  was  clutching  her  with  frantic  hands.  And  Helen 
could  only  gasp.  Her  breast  seemed  caved  in.  The  need 
to  breathe  was  torture. 

"Nell! — you're  not  hurt.  You  fell  light,  like  a  feather. 
All  grass  here.  .  .  .  You  can't  be  hurt!"  said  Dale,  sharply. 

His  anxious  voice  penetrated  beyond  her  hearing,  and 
his  strong  hands  went  swiftly  over  her  arms  and  shoulders, 
feeling  for  broken  bones. 

"  Just  had  the  wind  knocked  out  of  you,"  went  on  Dale. 
"It  feels  awful,  but  it's  nothin'." 

Helen  got  a  little  air,  that  was  like  hot  pin-points  in 
her  lungs,  and  then  a  deeper  breath,  and  then  full,  gasping 
respiration. 

"I  guess — I'm  not  hurt — not  a  bit,"  she  choked  out. 

"You  sure  had  a  header.    Never  saw  a  prettier  spili 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Ranger  doesn't  do  that  often.  I  reckon  we  were  travelin* 
too  fast.  But  it  was  fun,  don't  you  think? " 

It  was  Bo  who  answered.  "Oh,  glorious! . .  .  But,  gee! 
I  was  scared." 

Dale  still  held  Helen's  hands.  She  released  them  while 
looking  up  at  him.  The  moment  was  realization  for  her 
of  what  for  days  had  been  a  vague,  sweet  uncertainty, 
becoming  near  and  strange,  disturbing  and  present.  This 
accident  had  been  a  sudden,  violent  end  to  the  wonderful 
ride.  But  its  effect,  the  knowledge  of  what  had  got  into 
her  blood,  would  never  change.  And  inseparable  from  it 
was  this  man  of  the  forest. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

ON  the  next  morning  Helen  was  awakened  by  what 
she  imagined  had  been  a  dream  of  some  one  shout- 
ing. With  a  start  she  sat  up.  The  sunshine  showed  pink 
and  gold  on  the  ragged  spruce  line  of  the  mountain  rims. 
Bo  was  on  her  knees,  braiding  her  hair  with  shaking 
hands,  and  at  the  same  time  trying  to  peep  out. 

And  the  echoes  of  a  ringing  cry  were  cracking  back  from 
the  cliffs.  That  had  been  Dale's  voice. 

"Nell!  Nell!  Wake  up!"  called  Bo,  wildly.  "Oh, 
some  one's  come!  Horses  and  men!" 

Helen  got  to  her  knees  and  peered  out  over  Bo's  shoul- 
der. Dale,  standing  tall  and  striking  beside  the  camp- 
fire,  was  waving  his  sombrero.  Away  down  the  open 
edge  of  the  park  came  a  string  of  pack-burros  with 
mounted  men  behind.  In  the  foremost  rider  Helen  recog- 
nized Roy  Beeman. 

"That  first  one's  Roy!"  she  exclaimed.  "I'd  never 
forget  him  on  a  horse.  .  .  .  Bo,  it  must  mean  Uncle  Al's 
come!" 

"Sure!  We're  born  lucky.  Here  we  are  safe  and  sound 
— and  all  this  grand  camp  trip.  .  .  .  Look  at  the  cowboys. 
.  .  .  Look!  Oh,  maybe  this  isn't  great!"  babbled  Bo. 

Dale  wheeled  to  see  the  girls  peeping  out. 

"It's  time  you're  up!"  he  called.  "Your  uncle  Al  is 
here." 

For  an  instant  after  Helen  sank  back  out  of  Dale's 

sight  she  sat  there  perfectly  motionless,  so  struck  was 

she  by  the  singular  tone  of  Dale's  voice.     She  imagined 

that  he  regretted  what  this  visiting  cavalcade  of  horse- 

13  185 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

men  meant — they  had  come  to  take  her  to  her  ranch  in 
Pine.  Helen's  heart  suddenly  began  to  beat  fast,  but 
thickly,  as  if  muffled  within  her  breast. 

"Hurry  now,  girls,"  called  Dale. 

Bo  was  already  out,  kneeling  on  the  flat  stone  at  the 
little  brook,  splashing  water  in  a  great  hurry.  Helen's 
hands  trembled  so  that  she  could  scarcely  lace  her  boots 
or  brush  her  hair,  and  she  was  long  behind  Bo  in  making 
herself  presentable.  When  Helen  stepped  out,  a  short, 
powerfully  built  man  in  coarse  garb  and  heavy  boots 
stood  holding  Bo's  hands. 

"Wai,  wal!  You  favor  the  Rayners,"  he  was  saying. 
"I  remember  your  dad,  an'  a  fine  feller  he  was." 

Beside  them  stood  Dale  and  Roy,  and  beyond  was  a 
group  of  horses  and  riders. 

"Uncle,  here  comes  Nell,"  said  Bo,  softly. 

"  Aw ! "     The  old  cattle-man  breathed  hard  as  he  turned. 

Helen  hurried.  She  had  not  expected  to  remember 
this  uncle,  but  one  look  into  the  brown,  beaming  face, 
with  the  blue  eyes  flashing,  yet  sad,  and  she  recognized 
him,  at  the  same  instant  recalling  her  mother. 

He  held  out  his  arms  to  receive  her. 

"Nell  Auchincloss  all  over  again!"  he  exclaimed,  in 
deep  voice,  as  he  kissed  her.  "I'd  have  knowed  you 
anywhere!" 

"Uncle  Al!"  murmured  Helen.  "I  remember  you — 
though  I  was  only  four." 

"Wal,  wal,  that's  fine,"  he  replied.  "I  remember  you 
straddled  my  knee  once,  an'  your  hair  was  brighter — an' 
curly.  It  ain't  neither  now.  .  .  .  Sixteen  years!  An* 
you're  twenty  now?  What  a  fine,  broad-shouldered  girl 
you  are!  An',  Nell,  you're  the  handsomest  Auchincloss 
I  ever  seen!" 

Helen  found  herself  blusnmg,  «md  withdrew  her  hands 
from  his  as  Roy  stepped  forward  to  pay  his  respects.  He 
Stood  bareheaded,  lean  and  tall,  with  neither  his  clear 
eyes  nor  his  still  face,  nor  the  proffered  hand  expressing 

186 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

anything  of  the  proven  quality  of  fidelity,  of  achievement, 
that  Helen  sensed  in  him. 

"Howdy,  Miss  Helen?  Howdy,  Bo?"  he  said.  "You- 
all  both  look  fine  an'  brown.  ...  I  reckon  I  was  shore  slow 
rustlin'  your  uncle  Al  up  here.  But  I  was  figgerin'  you'd 
like  Milt's  camp  for  a  while." 

"We  sure  did,"  replied  Bo,  archly. 

"Aw!"  breathed  Auchincloss,  heavily.  "Lernme  set 
down." 

He  drew  the  girls  to  the  rustic  seat  Dale  had  built  for 
them  under  the  big  pine. 

"Oh,  you  must  be  tired!  How — how  are  you?"  asked 
Helen,  anxiously. 

"Tired!  Wai,  if  I  am  it's  jest  this  here  minit.  When 
Joe  Beeman  rode  in  on  me  with  thet  news  of  you — wal,  I 
jest  fergot  I  was  a  worn-out  old  hoss.  Haven't  felt  so 
good  in  years.  Mebbe  two  such  young  an*  pretty  nieces 
will  make  a  new  man  of  me." 

"Uncle  Al,  you  look  strong  and  well  to  me,"  said  Bo. 
"And  young,  too,  and — " 

"Haw!  Haw!  Thet '11  do,"  interrupted  Al.  "I  see 
through  you.  What  you'll  do  to  Uncle  Al  will  be  aplenty. 
.  .  .  Yes,  girls,  I'm  feelin'  fine.  But  strange — strange! 
Mebbe  thet's  my  joy  at  seein'  you  safe — safe  when  I 
feared  so  thet  damned  greaser  Beasley — " 

In  Helen's  grave  gaze  his  face  changed  swiftly — and  all 
the  serried  years  of  toil  and  battle  and  privation  showed, 
with  something  that  was  not  age,  nor  resignation,  yet  as 
tragic  as  both. 

"Wal,  never  mind  him — now,"  he  added,  slowly,  and 
the  warmer  light  returned  to  his  lace.  ' '  Dale — come  here. ' ' 

The  hunter  stepped  closer. 

"I  reckon  I  owe  you  more 'n  I  can  ever  pay,"  said 
Auchincloss,  with  an  arm  around  each  niece. 

"No,  Al,  you  don't  owe  me  anythin',"  returned  Dale, 
thoughtfully,  as  he  looked  away. 

"A-huh!"  grunted  Al.     "You  hear  him,  girls Now 

187 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

listen,  you  wild  hunter.  An'  you  girls  listen.  .  .  .  Milt,  I 
never  thought  you  much  good,  'cept  for  the  wilds.  But 
I  reckon  I'll  have  to  swallow  thet.  I  do.  Comin'  to  me 
as  you  did — an'  after  bein'  druv  off — keepin'  your  council 
an'  savin'  my  girls  from  thet  hold-up,  wal,  it's  the  biggest 
deal  any  man  ever  did  for  me.  .  .  .  An'  I'm  ashamed  of 
my  hard  feelin's,  an'  here's  my  hand." 

"Thanks,  Al,"  replied  Dale,  with  his  fleeting  smile, 
and  he  met  the  proffered  hand.  "Now,  will  you  be 
makin'  camp  here?" 

"Wal,  no.  I'll  rest  a  bit,  an'  you  can  pack  the  girls' 
outfit — then  we'll  go.  Sure  you're  goin'  with  us?" 

"I'll  call  the  girls  to  breakfast,"  replied  Dale,  and  he 
moved  away  without  answering  Auchincloss's  query. 

Helen  divined  that  Dale  did  not  mean  to  go  down  to 
Pine  with  them,  and  the  knowledge  gave  her  a  blank  feel- 
ing of  surprise.  Had  she  expected  him  to  go? 

"Come  here,  Jeff,"  called  Al,  to  one  of  his  men. 

A  short,  bow-legged  horseman  with  dusty  garb  and 
sun-bleached  face  hobbled  forth  from  the  group.  He  was 
not  young,  but  he  had  a  boyish  grin  and  bright  little  eyes. 
Awkwardly  he  doffed  his  slouch  sombrero. 

"Jeff,  shake  hands  with  my  nieces,"  said  Al.  "This  's 
Helen,  an'  your  boss  from  now  on.  An'  this  's  Bo,  fer 
short.  Her  name  was  Nancy,  but  when  she  lay  a  baby  in 
her  cradle  I  called  her  Bo-Peep,  an'  the  name's  stuck. 
.  .  .  Girls,  this  here's  my  foreman,  Jeff  Mulvey,  who's 
been  with  me  twenty  years." 

The  introduction  caused  embarrassment  to  all  three 
principals,  particularly  to  Jeff. 

"Jeff,  throw  the  packs  an'  saddles  fer  a  rest,"  was  Al's 
order  to  his  foreman. 

"Nell,  reckon  you'll  have  fun  bossin'  thet  outfit," 
chuckled  Al.  "None  of  'em's  got  a  wife.  Lot  of  scala- 
wags they  are;  no  women  would  have  them!" 

"  Uncle,  I  hope  I'll  never  have  to  be  their  boss,"  replied 

Helen. 

188 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"Wai,  you're  goin'  to  be,  right  off,"  declared  Al.  "They 
ain't  a  bad  lot,  after  all.  An'  I  got  a  likely  new  man." 

With  that  he  turned  to  Bo,  and,  after  studying  her 
pretty  face,  he  asked,  in  apparently  severe  tone,  "Did 
you  send  a  cowboy  named  Carmichael  to  ask  me  for  a 
job?" 

Bo  looked  quite  startled. 

" Carmichael!  Why,  Uncle,  I  never  heard  that  name 
before,"  replied  Bo,  bewilderedly. 

"A-huh!  Reckoned  the  young  rascal  was  lyin',"  said 
Auchincloss.  "But  I  liked  the  fellar's  looks  an'  so  let  him 
stay." 

Then  the  rancher  turned  to  the  group  of  lounging 
riders. 

"Las  Vegas,  come  here,"  he  ordered,  in  a  loud  voice. 

Helen  thrilled  at  sight  of  a  tall,  superbly  built  cowboy 
reluctantly  detaching  himself  from  the  group.  He  had  a 
red-bronze  face,  young  like  a  boy's.  Helen  recognized  it, 
and  the  flowing  red  scarf,  and  the  swinging  gun,  and  the 
slow,  spur-clinking  gait.  No  other  than  Bo's  Las  Vegas 
•cowboy  admirer! 

Then  Helen  flashed  a  look  at  Bo,  which  look  gave  her  a 
delicious,  almost  irresistible  desire  to  laugh.  That  young 
lady  also  recognized  the  reluctant  individual  approaching 
with  flushed  and  downcast  face.  Helen  recorded  her  first 
experience  of  Bo's  utter  discomnture.  Bo  turned  white — 
then  red  as  a  rose. 

"Say,  my  niece  said  she  never  heard  of  the  name  Car- 
michael," declared  Al,  severely,  as  the  cowboy  halted  be- 
fore him.  Helen  knew  her  uncle  had  the  repute  of  dealing 
"hard  with  his  men,  but  here  she  was  reassured  and  pleased 
at  the  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"Shore,  boss,  I  can't  help  thet,"  drawled  the  cowboy. 
"It's  good  old  Texas  stock." 

He  did  not  appear  shamefaced  now,  but  just  as  cool, 
easy,  clear-eyed,  and  lazy  as  the  day  Helen  had  liked  his 
warm  young  face  and  intent  gaze. 

189 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"Texas!  You  fellars  from  the  Pan  Handle  are  always 
hollerin'  Texas.  I  never  seen  thet  Texans  had  any  one  else 
beat — say  from  Missouri,"  returned  Al,  testily. 

Carmichael  maintained  a  discreet  silence,  and  carefully 
avoided  looking  at  the  girls. 

"Wai,  reckon  we'll  all  call  you  Las  Vegas,  anyway," 
continued  the  rancher.  "Didn't  you  say  my  niece  sent 
you  to  me  for  a  job?" 

Whereupon  Carmichael's  easy  manner  vanished. 

"  Now,  boss,  shore  my  memory's  pore,"  he  said.  "  I  only 
says—" 

"Don't  tell  me  thet.  My  memory's  not  p-o-r-e,"  replied 
Al,  mimicking  the  drawl.  "What  you  said  was  thet  my 
niece  would  speak  a  good  word  for  you." 

Here  Carmichael  stole  a  timid  glance  at  Bo,  the  result  of 
which  was  to  render  him  utterly  crestfallen.  Not  improb- 
ably he  had  taken  Bo's  expression  to  mean  something  it 
did  not,  for  Helen  read  it  as  a  mingling  of  consternation 
and  fright.  Her  eyes  were  big  and  blazing;  a  red  spot  was 
growing  in  each  cheek  as  she  gathered  strength  from  his 
confusion. 

"Well,  didn't  you?"  demanded  Al. 

From  the  glance  the  old  rancher  shot  from  the  cowboy 
to  the  others  of  his  employ  it  seemed  to  Helen  that  they 
were  having  fun  at  Carmichael's  expense. 

"Yes,  sir,  I  did,"  suddenly  replied  the  cowboy. 

"A-huh!  All  right,  here's  my  niece.  Now  see  thet  she 
speaks  the  good  word." 

Carmichael  looked  at  Bo  and  Bo  looked  at  him.  Their 
glances  were  strange,  wondering,  and  they  grew  shy.  Bo 
dropped  hers.  The  cowboy  apparently  forgot  what  had 
been  demanded  of  him. 

Helen  put  a  hand  on  the  old  rancher's  arm. 

"Uncle,  what  happened  was  my  fault,"  she  said.  "The 
train  stopped  at  Las  Vegas.  This  young  man  saw  us  at  the 
open  window.  He  must  have  guessed  we  were  lonely, 
homesick  girls,  getting  lost  in  the  West.  For  he  spoke  to 

190 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

us — nice  and  friendly.  He  knew  of  you.  And  he  asked,  in 
what  I  took  for  fun,  if  we  thought  you  would  give  him  a 
job.  And  I  replied,  just  to  tease  Bo,  that  she  would  surely 
speak  a  good  word  for  him." 

"Haw!  Haw!  So  thet's  it,"  replied  Al,  and  he  turned 
to  Bo  with  merry  eyes.  "Wai,  I  kept  this  here  Las  Vegas 
Carmichael  on  his  say-so.  Come  on  with  your  good  word, 
unless  you  want  to  see  him  lose  his  job." 

Bo  did  not  grasp  her  uncle's  bantering,  because  she  was 
seriously  gazing  at  the  cowboy.  But  she  had  grasped 
something. 

"He — he  was  the  first  person — out  West — to  speak 
kindly  to  us,"  she  said,  facing  her  uncle. 

"Wai,  thet's  a  pretty  good  word,  but  it  ain't  enough," 
responded  Al. 

Subdued  laughter  came  from  the  listening  group.  Car- 
michael shifted  from  side  to  side. 

"  He — he  looks  as  if  he  might  ride  a  horse  well,"  ventured 
Bo. 

"Best  hossman  I  ever  seen,"  agreed  Al,  heartily. 

"And — and  shoot?"  added  Bo,  hopefully. 

"Bo,  he  pacics  thet  gun  low,  like  Jim  Wilson  an'  all 
them  Texas  gun-fighters.  Reckon  thet  ain't  no  good 
word." 

"Then— I'll  vouch  for  him,"  said  Bo,  with  finality. 

"Thet  settles  it."  Auchincloss  turned  to  the  cowboy. 
"Las  Vegas,  you're  a  stranger  to  us.  But  you're  welcome 
to  a  place  in  the  outfit  an'  I  hope  you  won't  never  dis- 
appoint us." 

Auchincloss's  tone,  passing  from  jest  to  earnest,  be- 
trayed to  Helen  the  old  rancher's  need  of  new  and  true 
men,  and  hinted  of  trying  days  to  come. 

Carmichael  stood  before  Bo,  sombrero  in  hand,  rolling 
it  round  and  round,  manifestly  bursting  with  words  he 
could  not  speak.  And  the  girl  looked  very  young  and  sweet 
with  her  flushed  face  and  shining  eyes.  Helen  saw  in  the 
moment  more  than  that  little  by-play  of  confusion. 

IQI 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"Miss — Miss  Rayner — I  shore — am  obliged,"  he  stam- 
mered, presently. 

"You're  very  welcome,"  she  replied,  softly. 

"I — I  got  on  the  next  train,"  he  added. 

When  he  said  that  Bo  was  looking  straight  at  him,  but 
she  seemed  not  to  have  heard. 

"What's  your  name?"  suddenly  she  asked. 

"Carmichael." 

"I  heard  that.   But  didn't  uncle  call  you  Las  Vegas?" 

"Shore.  But  it  wasn't  my  fault.  Thet  cow-punchin' 
outfit  saddled  it  on  me,  right  off.  They  don't  know  no 
better.  Shore  I  jest  won't  answer  to  thet  handle.  .  .  . 
Now — Miss  Bo — my  real  name  is  Tom." 

"  I  simply  could  not  call  you — any  name  but  Las  Vegas," 
replied  Bo,  very  sweetly. 

"But — beggin'  your  pardon — I — I  don't  like  thet," 
blustered  Carmichael. 

"People  often  get  called  names — they  don't  like,"  she 
said,  with  deep  intent. 

The  cowboy  blushed  scarlet.  Helen  as  well  as  he  got 
Bo's  inference  to  that  last  audacious  epithet  he  had  boldly 
called  out  as  the  train  was  leaving  Las  Vegas.  She  also 
sensed  something  of  the  disaster  in  store  for  Mr.  Car- 
michael. Just  then  the  embarrassed  young  man  was  saved 
by  Dale's  call  to  the  girls  to  come  to  breakfast. 

That  meal,  the  last  for  Helen  in  Paradise  Park,  gave 
rise  to  a  strange  and  inexplicable  restraint.  She  had  little 
to  say.  Bo  was  in  the  highest  spirits,  teasing  the  pets, 
joking  with  her  uncle  and  Roy,  and  even  poking  fun  at 
Dale.  The  hunter  seemed  somewhat  somber.  Roy  was 
his  usual  dry,  genial  self.  And  Auchincloss,  who  sat  near 
by,  was  an  interested  spectator.  When  Tom  put  in  an 
appearance,  lounging  with  his  feline  grace  into  the  camp, 
as  if  he  knew  he  was  a  privileged  pet,  the  rancher  could 
scarcely  contain  himself. 

"Dale,  it's  thet  damn  cougar!"  he  ejaculated, 

I Q2 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"Sure,  that's  Tom." 

"He  ought  to  be  corralled  or  chained.  I've  no  use  for 
cougars,"  protested  Al. 

"Tom  is  as  tame  an'  safe  as  a  kitten." 

"  A-huh !  Wai,  you  tell  thet  to  the  girls  if  you  like.  But 
not  me!  I'm  an  old  hoss,  I  am." 

"Uncle  Al,  Tom  sleeps  curled  up  at  the  foot  of  my 
bed,"  said  Bo. 

"Aw— what?" 

"Honest  Injun,"  she  responded.   "Well,  isn't  it  so?" 

Helen  smilingly  nodded  her  corroboration.  Then  Bo 
called  Tom  to  her  and  made  him  lie  with  his  head  on  his 
stretched  paws,  right  beside  her,  and  beg  for  bits  to  eat. 

"Wai!  I'd  never  have  believed  thet!"  exclaimed  Al, 
shaking  his  big  head.  "  Dale,  it's  one  on  me.  I've  had  them 
big  cats  foller  me  on  the  trails,  through  the  woods,  moon- 
light an'  dark.  An'  I've  heard  'em  let  out  thet  awful  cry. 
They  ain't  any  wild  sound  on  earth  thet  can  beat  a  cou- 
gar's. Does  this  Tom  ever  let  out  one  of  them  wails?" 

"Sometimes  at  night,"  replied  Dale. 

"Wai,  excuse  me.  Hope  you  don't  fetch  the  yallet 
rascal  down  to  Pine." 

"I  won't." 

"What  '11  you  do  with  this  menagerie?" 

Dale  regarded  the  rancher  attentively.  "Reckon,  Al, 
I'll  take  care  of  them." 

"But  you're  goin'  down  to  my  ranch." 

"What  for?" 

Al  scratched  his  head  and  gazed  perplexedly  at  the 
hunter.  "Wai,  ain't  it  customary  to  visit  friends?" 

"Thanks,  Al.  Next  time  I  ride  down  Pine  way — in  the 
spring,  perhaps — I'll  run  over  an'  see  how  you  are." 

"Spring!"  ejaculated  Auchincloss.  Then  he  shook  his 
head  sadly  and  a  far-away  look  filmed  his  eyes.  "Reckon 
you'd  call  some  late." 

"Al,  you'll  get  well  now.  These  girls — now — they'll 
cure  you.  Reckon  I  never  saw  you  look  so  good." 

193 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Auchincloss  did  not  press  his  point  farther  at  that  time, 
but  after  the  meal,  when  the  other  men  came  to  see  Dale's 
camp  and  pets,  Helen's  quick  ears  caught  the  renewal 
of  the  subject. 

"I'm  askin'  you — will  you  come?"  Auchincloss  said, 
low  and  eagerly. 

"No.    I  wouldn't  fit  in  down  there,"  replied  Dale. 

"Milt,  talk  sense.  You  can't  go  on  forever  huntin' 
bear  an'  tamin'  cats,"  protested  the  old  rancher. 

"Why  not?"  asked  the  hunter,  thoughtfully. 

Auchincloss  stood  up  and,  shaking  himself  as  if  to  ward 
off  his  testy  temper,  he  put  a  hand  on  Dale's  arm. 

"One  reason  is  you're  needed  in  Pine." 

"How?     Who  needs  me?" 

"I  do.  I'm  playin'  out  fast.  An'  Beasley's  my  enemy. 
The  ranch  an'  all  I  got  will  go  to  Nell.  Thet  ranch  will 
have  to  be  run  by  a  man  an'  held  by  a  man.  Do  you 
savvy?  It's  a  big  job.  An'  I'm  offerin'  to  make  you  my 
foreman  right  now." 

"Al,  you  sort  of  take  my  breath,"  replied  Dale.  "An' 
I'm  sure  grateful.  But  the  fact  is,  even  if  I  could  handle 
the  job,  I— I  don't  believe  I'd  want  to." 

"Make  yourself  want  to,  then.  Thet  'd  soon  come. 
You'd  get  interested.  This  country  will  develop.  I 
seen  thet  years  ago.  The  government  is  goin'  to 
chase  the  Apaches  out  of  here.  Soon  homesteaders 
will  be  flockin'  in.  Big  future,  Dale.  You  want  to 
get  in  now.  An' — " 

Here  Auchincloss  hesitated,  then  spoke  lower: 

"An'  take  your  chance  with  the  girl!  .  .  .  I'll  be  on 
your  side." 

A  slight  vibrating  start  ran  over  Dale's  stalwart  form. 

"Al — you're  plumb  dotty  f"  he  exclaimed. 

' '  Dotty !  Me  ?  Dotty ! ' '  ejaculated  Auchincloss.  Then 
he  swore.  "  In  a  minit  I'll  tell  you  what  you  are." 

"But,  Al,  that  talk's  so— so— like  an  old  fool's." 

"Huh!    An' why  so?" 

194 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"Because  that — wonderful  girl  would  never  look  at 
me,"  Dale  replied,  simply. 

"I  seen  her  lookin'  already,"  declared  Al,  bluntly. 

Dale  shook  his  head  as  if  arguing  with  the  old  rancher 
was  hopeless. 

"Never  mind  thet,"  went  on  Al.  "Mebbe  I  am  a 
dotty  old  fool — 'specially  for  takin'  a  shine  to  you.  But 
I  say  again — will  you  come  down  to  Pine  an'  be  my 
foreman?" 

" No, "replied  Dale. 

"  Milt,  I've  no  son — an'  I'm — afraid  of  Beasley."  This 
was  uttered  in  an  agitated  whisper. 

"Al,  you  make  me  ashamed,"  said  Dale,  hoarsely.  "I 
can't  come.  I've  no  nerve." 

"You've  no  what?" 

"Al,  I  don't  know  what's  wrong  with  me.  But  I'm 
afraid  I'd  find  out  if  I  came  down  there." 

"A-huh!     It's  the  girl!" 

"I  don't  know,  but  I'm  afraid  so.  An'  I  won't 
come." 

"Aw  yes,  you  will — " 

Helen  rose  with  beating  heart  and  tingling  ears,  and 
moved  away  out  of  hearing.  She  had  listened  too  long  to 
what  had  not  been  intended  for  her  ears,  yet  she  could 
not  be  sorry.  She  walked  a  few  rods  along  the  brook, 
out  from  under  the  pines,  and,  standing  in  the  open  edge 
of  the  park,  she  felt  the  beautiful  scene  still  her  agitation. 
The  following  moments,  then,  were  the  happiest  she  had 
spent  in  Paradise  Park,  and  the  profoundest  of  her  whole 
life. 

Presently  her  uncle  called  her. 

"Nell,  this  here  hunter  wants  to  give  you  thet  black 
hoss.  An'  I  say  you  take  him." 

"Ranger  deserves  better  care  than  I  can  give  him," 
said  Dale.  "He  runs  free  in  the  woods  most  of  the  time. 
I'd  be  obliged  if  she'd  have  him.  An'  the  hound,  Pedro* 
too." 

195 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

Bo  swept  a  saucy  glance  from  Dale  to  her  sister. 

"Sure  she'll  have  Ranger.     Just  offer  him  to  me!" 

Dale  stood  there  expectantly,  holding  a  blanket  in  his 
hand,  ready  to  saddle  the  horse.  Carmichael  walked 
around  Ranger  with  that  appraising  eye  so  keen  in  cow- 
boys. 

"Las  Vegas,  do  you  know  anything  about  horses?" 
asked  Bo. 

"Me!  Wai,  if  you  ever  buy  or  trade  a  hoss  you  shore 
have  me  there,"  replied  Carmichael. 

"What  do  you  think  of  Ranger?"  went  on  Bo. 

"Shore  I'd  buy  him  sudden,  if  I  could." 

"Mr.  Las  Vegas,  you're  too  late,"  asserted  Helen,  as 
she  advanced  to  lay  a  hand  on  the  horse.  "Ranger  is 
mine." 

Dale  smoothed  out  the  blanket  and,  folding  it,  he  threw 
it  over  the  horse;  and  then  with  one  powerful  swing  he 
set  the  saddle  in  place. 

"Thank  you  very  much  for  him,"  said  Helen,  softly. 

"You're  welcome,  an'  I'm  sure  glad,"  responded  Dale, 
and  then,  after  a  few  deft,  strong  pulls  at  the  straps,  he 
continued.  "There,  he's  ready  for  you." 

With  that  he  laid  an  arm  over  the  saddle,  and  faced 
Helen  as  she  stood  patting  and  smoothing  Ranger.  Helen, 
strong  and  calm  now,  in  feminine  posssssion  of  her  secret 
and  his,  as  well  as  her  composure,  looked  frankly  and 
steadily  at  Dale.  He  seemed  composed,  too,  yet  the 
bronze  of  his  fine  face  was  a  trifle  pale. 

"But  I  can't  thank  you — I'll  never  be  able  to  repay 
you — for  your  service  to  me  and  my  sister,"  said  Helen. 

"I  reckon  you  needn't  try,"  Dale  returned.  "An'  my 
service,  as  you  call  it,  has  been  good  for  me." 

"Are  you  going  down  to  Pine  with  us?" 

"No." 

"But  you  will  come  soon?" 

"Not  very  soon,  I  reckon,"  he  replied,  and  averted  his 
gaze. 

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THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"When?" 

"Hardly  before  spring." 

"Spring?  .  .  .  That  is  a  long  time.  Won't  you  come  to 
see  me  sooner  than  that?" 

"If  I  can  get  down  to  Pine." 

"You're  the  first  friend  I've  made  in  the  West,"  said 
Helen,  earnestly. 

"You'll  make  many  more — an*  I  reckon  soon  forget  him 
you  called  the  man  of  the  forest." 

"I  never  forget  any  of  my  friends.  And  you've  beep 
the — the  biggest  friend  I  ever  had." 

"I'll  be  proud  to  remember." 

"  But  will  you  remember — will  you  promise  to  come  to 
Pine?" 

"I  reckon." 

"Thank  you.  All's  well,  then.  .  .  .  My  friend,  good- 
by." 

"Good-by,"  he  said,  clasping  her  hand.  His  glance 
was  clear,  warm,  beautiful,  yet  it  was  sad. 

Auchincloss's  hearty  voice  broke  the  spell.  Then  Helen 
saw  that  the  others  were  mounted.  Bo  had  ridden  up 
close;  her  face  was  earnest  and  happy  and  grieved  all  at 
once,  as  she  bade  good-by  to  Dale.  The  pack-burros 
were  hobbling  along  toward  the  green  slope.  Helen  was 
the  last  to  mount,  but  Roy  was  the  last  to  leave  the 
hunter.  Pedro  came  reluctantly. 

It  was  a  merry,  singing  train  which  climbed  that  brown 
odorous  trail,  under  the  dark  spruces.  Helen  assuredly 
was  happy,  yet  a  pang  abided  in  her  breast. 

She  remembered  that  half-way  up  the  slope  there  was 
a  turn  in  the  trail  where  it  came  out  upon  an  open  bluff. 
The  time  seemed  long,  but  at  last  she  got  there.  And  she 
checked  Ranger  so  as  to  have  a  moment's  gaze  down  into 
the  park. 

It  yawned  there,  a  dark-green  and  bright-gold  gulf, 
asleep  under  a  westering  sun,  exquisite,  wild,  lonesome. 
Then  she  saw  Dale  standing  in  the  open  space  between 

IQ7 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

the  pines  and  the  spruces.  He  waved  to  her.  And  she 
returned  the  salute. 

Roy  caught  up  with  her  then  and  halted  his  horse.  He 
waved  his  sombrero  to  Dale  and  let  out  a  piercing  yell 
that  awoke  the  sleeping  echoes,  splitting  strangely  from 
cliff  to  cliff. 

"  Shore  Milt  never  knowed  what  it  was  to  be  lonesome," 
said  Roy,  as  if  thinking  aloud.  "But  he'll  know  now." 

Ranger  stepped  out  of  his  own  accord  and,  turning  off 
the  ledge,  entered  the  spruce  forest.  Helen  lost  sight  of 
Paradise  Park.  For  hours  then  she  rode  along  a  shady, 
fragrant  trail,  seeing  the  beauty  of  color  and  wildness, 
hearing  the  murmur  and  rush  and  roar  of  water,  but  all 
the  while  her  mind  revolved  the  sweet  and  momentous 
realization  which  had  thrilled  her — that  the  hunter,  this 
strange  man  of  the  forest,  so  deeply  versed  in  nature  and 
so  unfamiliar  with  emotion,  aloof  and  simple  and  strong 
like  the  elements  which  had  developed  him,  had  fallen  in 
love  with  her  and  did  not  know  it. 


CHAPTER  XV 

DAl^E  stood  with  face  and  arm  upraised,  and  he 
watched  Helen  ride  off  the  ledge  to  disappear  in 
the  forest.  That  vast  spruce  slope  seemed  to  have  swal- 
lowed her.  She  was  gone!  Slowly  Dale  lowered  his  arm 
with  gesture  expressive  of  a  strange  finality,  an  eloquent 
despair,  of  which  he  was  unconscious. 

He  turned  to  the  park,  to  his  camp,  and  the  many 
duties  of  a  hunter.  The  park  did  not  seem  the  same,  nor 
his  home,  nor  his  work. 

"I  reckon  this  feelin's  natural,"  he  soliloquized,  re- 
signedly, "but  it's  sure  queer  for  me.  That's  what  comes 
of  makin'  friends.  Nell  an'  Bo,  now,  they  made  a  differ- 
ence, an'  a  difference  I  never  knew  before." 

He  calculated  that  this  difference  had  been  simply  one 
of  responsibility,  and  then  the  charm  and  liveliness  of  the 
companionship  of  girls,  and  finally  friendship.  These 
would  pass  now  that  the  causes  were  removed. 

Before  he  had  worked  an  hour  around  camp  he  realized 
a  change  had  come,  but  it  was  not  the  one  anticipated. 
Always  before  he  had  put  his  mind  on  his  tasks,  whatever 
they  might  be;  now  he  worked  while  his  thoughts  were 
strangely  involved. 

The  little  bear  cub  whined  at  his  heels;  the  tame  deer 
Seemed  0  regard  him  with  deep,  questioning  eyes;  the 
big  coug  ir  padded  softly  here  and  there  as  if  searching 
for  something. 

"You  all  miss  them — now — I  reckon,"  said  Dale. 
"Well,  they're  gone  an'  you'll  have  to  get  along  with  me." 

Some  vague  approach  to  irritation  with  his  pets  sur- 

199 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

prised  him.  Presently  he  grew  both  irritated  and  sur- 
prised with  himself — a  state  of  mind  totally  unfamiliar. 
Several  times,  as  old  habit  brought  momentary  abstrac- 
tion, he  found  himself  suddenly  looking  around  for  Helen 
and  Bo.  And  each  time  the  shock  grew  stronger.  They 
were  gone,  but  their  presence  lingered.  After  his  camp 
chores  were  completed  he  went  over  to  pull  down  the  lean- 
to  which  the  girls  had  utilized  as  a  tent.  The  spruce 
boughs  had  dried  out  brown  and  sear;  the  wind  had 
blown  the  roof  awry;  the  sides  were  leaning  in.  As  there 
was  now  no  further  use  for  this  little  habitation,  he  might 
better  pull  it  dowr,.  Dale  did  not  acknowledge  that  his 
gaze  had  involuntarily  wandered  toward  it  many  times. 
Therefore  he  strode  over  with  the  intention  of  destroy- 
ing it. 

For  the  first  time  since  Roy  and  he  had  built  the  lean-to 
he  stepped  inside.  Nothing  was  more  certain  than  the 
fact  that  he  experienced  a  strange  sensation,  perfectly 
incomprehensible  to  him.  The  blankets  lay  there  on  the 
spruce  boughs,  disarranged  and  thrown  back  by  hurried 
hands,  yet  still  holding  something  of  round  folds  where 
the  slender  forms  had  nestled.  A  black  scarf  often  worn 
by  Bo  lay  covering  the  pillow  of  pine-needles;  a  red  ribbon 
that  Helen  had  worn  on  her  hair  hung  from  a  twig.  These 
articles  were  all  that  had  been  forgotten.  Dale  gazed  at 
them  attentively,  then  at  the  blankets,  and  all  around 
the  fragrant  little  shelter;  and  he  stepped  outside  with 
an  uncomfortable  knowledge  that  he  could  not  destroy 
the  place  where  Helen  and  Bo  had  spent  so  many  hours. 

Whereupon,  in  studious  mood,  Dale  took  up  his  rifle 
and  strode  out  to  hunt.  His  winter  supply  of  venison 
had  not  yet  been  laid  in.  Action  suited  his  mood;  he 
climbed  far  and  passed  by  many  a  watching  buck  to  slay 
which  seemed  murder;  at  last  he  jumped  one  that  was 
wild  and  bounded  away.  This  he  shot,  and  set  himself 
a  Herculean  task  in  packing  the  whole  carcass  back  to 
camp.  Burdened  thus,  he  staggered  under  the  trees, 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

sweating  freely,  many  times  laboring  for  breath,  aching 
with  toil,  until  at  last  he  had  reached  camp.  There  he 
slid  the  deer  carcass  off  his  shoulders,  and,  standing  over 
it,  he  gazed  down  while  his  breast  labored.  It  was  one 
of  the  finest  young  bucks  he  had  ever  seen.  But  neither 
in  stalking  it,  nor  making  a  wonderful  shot,  nor  in  packing 
home  a  weight  that  would  have  burdened  two  men,  nor 
in  gazing  down  at  his  beautiful  quarry,  did  Dale  experi- 
ence any  of  the  old  joy  of  the  hunter. 

"I'm  a  little  off  my  feed,"  he  mused,  as  he  wiped  the 
sweat  from  his  heated  face.  "Maybe  a  little  dotty,  as  I 
called  Al.  But  that  '11  pass." 

Whatever  his  state,  it  did  not  pass.  As  of  old,  after  a 
long  day's  hunt,  he  reclined  beside  the  camp-fire  and 
watched  the  golden  sunset  glows  change  on  the  ramparts; 
as  of  old  he  laid  a  hand  on  the  soft,  furry  head  of  the  pet 
cougar;  as  of  old  he  watched  the  gold  change  to  red  and 
then  to  dark,  and  twilight  fall  like  a  blanket;  as  of  old 
he  listened  to  the  dreamy,  lulling  murmur  of  the  water- 
fall. The  old  familiar  beauty,  wildness,  silence,  and  lone- 
liness were  there,  but  the  old  content  seemed  strangely 
gone. 

Soberly  he  confessed  then  that  he  missed  the  happy 
company  of  the  girls.  He  did  not  distinguish  Helen  from 
Bo  in  his  slow -introspection.  When  he  sought  his  bed  he 
did  not  at  once  fall  to  sleep.  Always,  after  a  few  moments 
of  wakefulness,  while  the  silence  settled  down  or  the  wind 
moaned  through  the  pines,  he  had  fallen  asleep.  This 
night  he  found  different.  Though  he  was  tired,  sleep 
would  not  soon  come.  The  wilderness,  the  mountains, 
the  park,  the  camp — all  seemed  to  have  lost  something. 
Even  the  darkness  seemed  empty.  And  when  at  length 
Dale  fell  asleep  it  was  to  be  troubled  by  restless  dreams. 

Up  with  the  keen-edged,  steely-bright  dawn,  he  went  at 
his  tasks  with  the  springy  stride  of  the  deer-stalker. 
At  the  end  of  that  strenuous  day,  which  was  singularly 

201 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

full  of  the  old  excitement  and  action  and  danger,  and  of 
new  observations,  he  was  bound  to  confess  that  no  longer 
did  the  chase  suffice  for  him. 

Many  times  on  the  heights  that  day,  with  the  wind 
keen  in  his  face,  and  the  vast  green  billows  of  spruce  below 
him,  he  had  found  that  he  was  gazing  without  seeing, 
halting  without  object,  dreaming  as  he  had  never  dreamed 
before. 

Once,  when  a  magnificent  elk  came  out  upon  a  rocky 
ridge  and,  whistling  a  challenge  to  invisible  rivals,  stood 
there  a  target  to  stir  any  hunter's  pulse,  Dale  did  not  even 
raise  his  rifle.  Into  his  ear  just  then  rang  Helen's  voice: 
"Milt  Dale,  you  are  no  Indian.  Giving  yourself  to  a  hunt- 
er's wild  life  is  selfish.  It  is  wrong.  You  love  this  lonely 
life,  but  it  is  not  work.  Work  that  does  not  help  others  is 
not  a  real  man's  work." 

From  that  moment  conscience  tormented  him.  It  was 
not  what  he  loved,  but  what  he  ought  to  do,  that  counted  in 
the  sum  of  good  achieved  in  the  world.  Old  Al  Auchin- 
closs  had  been  right.  Dale  was  wasting  strength  and  intel- 
ligence that  should  go  to  do  his  share  in  the  development 
of  the  West.  Now  that  he  had  reached  maturity,  if 
through  his  knowledge  of  nature's  law  he  had  come  to  see 
the  meaning  of  the  strife  of  men  for  existence,  for  place, 
for  possession,  and  to  hold  them  in  contempt,  that  was 
no  reason  why  he  should  keep  himself  aloof  from  them, 
from  some  work  that  was  needed  in  an  incomprehensible 
world. 

Dale  did  not  hate  work,  but  he  loved  freedom.  To  be 
alone,  to  live  with  nature,  to  feel  the  elements,  to  labor 
and  dream  and  idle  and  climb  and  sleep  unhampered  b<* 
duty,  by  worry,  by  restriction,  by  the  petty  interests  uf 
men — this  had  always  been  his  ideal  of  living.  Cowboys, 
riders,  sheep-herders,  farmers — these  toiled  on  from  one 
place  and  one  job  to  another  for  the  little  money  doled  out 
to  them.  Nothing  beautiful,  nothing  significant  had  ever 
existed  in  that  for  him.  He  had  worked  as  a  boy  at  ever* 

202 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

kind  of  range-work,  and  of  all  that  humdrum  waste  of  effort 
he  had  liked  sawing  wood  best.  Once  he  had  quit  a  job 
of  branding  cattle  because  the  smell  of  burning  hide,  the 
bawl  of  the  terrified  calf,  had  sickened  him.  If  men  were 
honest  there  would  be  no  need  to  scar  cattle.  He  had  never 
in  the  least  desired  to  own  land  and  droves  of  stock,  and 
make  deals  with  ranchmen,  deals  advantageous  to  himself. 
Why  should  a  man  want  to  make  a  deal  or  trade  a  horse 
V  do  a  piece  of  work  to  another  man's  disadvantage ?  Self- 
preservation  was  the  first  law  of  life.  But  as  the  plants 
and  trees  and  birds  and  beasts  interpreted  that  law,  merci^ 
less  and  inevitable  as  they  were,  they  had  neither  greed 
nor  dishonesty.  They  lived  by  the  grand  rule  of  what  was 
best  for  the  greatest  number. 

But  Dale's  philosophy,  cold  and  clear  and  inevitable, 
like  nature  itself,  began  to  be  pierced  by  the  human  appeal 
in  Helen  Rayner's  words.  What  did  she  mean  ?  Not  that 
he  should  lose  his  love  of  the  wilderness,  but  that  he  realize 
himself!  Many  chance  words  of  that  girl  had  depth.  He 
was  young,  strong,  intelligent,  free  from  taint  of  disease 
or  the  fever  of  drink.  He  could  do  something  for  others. 
Who?  If  that  mattered,  there,  for  instance,  was  poor 
old  Mrs.  Cass,  aged  and  lame  now;  there  was  Al  Auchin- 
closs,  dying  in  his  boots,  afraid  of  enemies,  and  wistful 
for  his  blood  and  his  property  to  receive  the  fruit  of  his 
labors;  there  were  the  two  girls,  Helen  and  Bo,  new  and 
strange  to  the  West,  about  to  be  confronted  by  a  big 
problem  of  ranch  life  and  rival  interests.  Dale  thought 
of  still  more  people  in  the  little  village  of  Pine — of  others 
who  had  failed,  whose  lives  were  hard,  who  could  have 
been  made  happier  by  kindness  and  assistance. 

What,  then,  was  the  duty  of  Milt  Dale  to  himself? 
Because  men  preyed  on  one  another  and  on  the  weak, 
should  he  turn  his  back  upon  a  so-called  civilization  or 
should  he  grow  like  them?  Clear  as  a  bell  came  the 
answer  that  his  duty  was  to  do  neither.  And  then  he  saw 
how  the  little  village  of  Pine,  as  well  as  the  whole  world, 

203 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

needed  men  like  him.  He  had  gone  to  nature,  to  the  for- 
est, to  the  wilderness  for  his  development;  and  all  the 
judgments  and  efforts  of  his  future  would  be  a  result  of 
that  education. 

Thus  Dale,  lying  in  the  darkness  and  silence  of  his  lonely 
park,  arrived  at  a  conclusion  that  he  divined  was  but 
the  beginning  of  a  struggle. 

It  took  long  introspection  to  determine  the  exact  nature 
of  that  struggle,  but  at  length  it  evolved  into  the  paradox 
that  Helen  Rayner  had  opened  his  eyes  to  his  duty  as  a 
man,  that  he  accepted  it,  yet  found  a  strange  obstacle 
in  the  perplexing,  tumultuous,  sweet  fear  of  ever  going 
near  her  again. 

Suddenly,  then,  all  his  thought  revolved  around  the 
girl,  and,  thrown  off  his  balance,  he  weltered  in  a  wilder- 
ness of  unfamiliar  strange  ideas. 

When  he  awoke  next  day  the  fight  was  on  in  earnest. 
In  his  sleep  his  mind  had  been  active.  The  idea  that 
greeted  him,  beautiful  as  the  sunrise,  flashed  in  memory 
of  Auchincloss's  significant  words,  "Take  your  chance 
with  the  girl!" 

The  old  rancher  was  in  his  dotage.  He  hinted  of  things 
beyond  the  range  of  possibility.  That  idea  of  a  chance 
for  Dale  remained  before  his  consciousness  only  an  instant. 
Stars  were  unattainable;  life  could  not  be  fathomed;  the 
secret  of  nature  did  not  abide  alone  on  the  earth — these 
theories  were  not  any  more  impossible  of  proving  than 
that  Helen  Rayner  might  be  for  him. 

Nevertheless,  her  strange  coming  into  his  life  had  played 
havoc,  the  extent  of  which  he  had  only  begun  to  realize. 

For  a  month  he  tramped  through  the  forest.  It  was 
October,  a  still  golden,  fulfilling  season  of  the  year;  and 
everywhere  in  the  vast  dark  green  a  glorious  blaze  of  oak 
and  aspen  made  beautiful  contrast.  He  carried  his  rifle, 
but  he  never  used  it.  He  would  climb  miles  and  go  this 
way  and  that  with  no  object  in  view.  Yet  his  eye  and  ear 

204 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

had  never  been  keener.  Hours  he  would  spend  on  a  prom- 
ontory, watching  the  distance,  where  the  golden  patches 
of  aspen  shone  bright  out  cf  dark-green  mountain  slopes. 
He  loved  to  fling  himself  down  in  an  aspen-grove  at  the 
edge  of  a  senaca,  and  there  lie  in  that  radiance  like  a  veil 
of  gold  and  purple  and  red,  with  the  white  tree-trunks 
striping  the  shade.  Always,  whether  there  were  breeze 
or  not,  the  aspen-leaves  quivered,  ceaselessly,  wonderfully, 
like  his  pulses,  beyond  his  control.  Often  he  reclined 
against  a  mossy  rock  beside  a  mountain  stream  to  listen, 
to  watch,  to  feel  all  that  was  there,  while  his  mind  held  a 
haunting,  dark-eyed  vision  of  a  girl.  On  the  lonely 
heights,  like  an  eagle,  he  sat  gazing  down  into  Paradise 
Park,  that  was  more  and  more  beautiful,  but  would  never 
again  be  the  same,  never  fill  him  with  content,  never  be 
all  and  all  to  him. 

Late  in  October  the  first  snow  fell.  It  melted  at  once 
on  the  south  side  of  the  park,  but  the  north  slopes  and  the 
rims  and  domes  above  stayed  white. 

Dale  had  worked  quick  and  hard  at  curing  and  storing 
his  winter  supply  of  food,  and  now  he  spent  days  chopping 
and  splitting  wood  to  burn  during  the  months  he  would 
be  snowed-in.  He  watched  for  the  dark-gray,  fast-scudding 
storm-clouds,  and  welcomed  them  when  they  came.  Once 
there  lay  ten  feet  of  snow  on  the  trails  he  would  be  snowed- 
in  until  spring.  It  would  be  impossible  to  go  down  to 
Pine.  And  perhaps  during  the  long  winter  he  would  be 
cured  of  this  strange,  nameless  disorder  of  his  feelings. 

November  brought  storms  up  on  the  peaks.  Flurries 
of  snow  fell  in  the  park  every  day,  but  the  sunny  south 
side,  where  Dale's  camp  lay,  retained  its  autumnal  color 
and  warmth.  Not  till  late  in  winter  did  the  snow  creep 
over  this  secluded  nook. 

The  morning  came  at  last,  piercingly  keen  and  bright, 
when  Dale  saw  that  the  heights  were  impassable;  the 
realization  brought  him  a  poignant  regret.  He  had  not 
guessed  how  he  had  wanted  to  see  Helen  Rayner  again 

205 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

until  it  was  too  late.  That  opened  his  eyes.  A  raging 
frenzy  of  action  followed,  in  which  he  only  tired  himself 
physically  without  helping  himself  spiritually. 

It  was  sunset  when  he  faced  the  west,  looking  up  at  the 
pink  snow-domes  and  the  dark-golden  fringe  of  spruce, 
and  in  that  moment  he  found  the  truth. 

"I  love  that  girl!  I  love  that  girl!"  he  spoke  aloud,  to 
the  distant  white  peaks,  to  the  winds,  to  the  loneliness  and 
silence  of  his  prison,  to  the  great  pines  and  to  the  murmur- 
ing stream,  and  to  his  faithful  pets.  It  was  his  tragic 
confession  of  weakness,  of  amazing  truth,  of  hopeless  posi- 
tion, of  pitiful  excuse  for  the  transformation  wrought  in 
him. 

Dale's  struggle  ended  there  when  he  faced  his  soul.  To 
understand  himself  was  to  be  released  from  strain,  worry, 
ceaseless  importuning  doubt  and  wonder  and  fear.  But 
the  fever  of  unrest,  of  uncertainty,  had  been  nothing  cor*^ 
pared  to  a  sudden  upflashing  torment  of  love. 

With  somber  deliberation  he  set  about  the  tasks  need» 
ful,  and  others  that  he  might  make — his  camp-fires  and 
meals,  the  care  of  his  pets  and  horses,  the  mending  of 
saddles  and  pack-harness,  the  curing  of  buckskin  for 
moccasins  and  hunting-suits.  So  his  days  were  not  idle, 
But  all  this  work  was  habit  for  him  and  needed  no  applica- 
tion of  mind. 

And  Dale,  like  some  men  of  lonely  wilderness  lives  who 
did  not  retrograde  toward  the  savage,  was  a  thinker. 
Love  made  him  a  sufferer. 

The  surprise  and  shame  of  his  unconscious  surrender, 
the  certain  hopelessness  of  it,  the  long  years  of  communion 
with  all  that  was  wild,  lonely,  and  beautiful,  the  wonder- 
fully developed  insight  into  nature's  secrets,  and  the  sud- 
den-dawning revelation  that  he  was  no  omniscient  being 
exempt  from  the  ruthless  ordinary  destiny  of  man — all 
these  showed  him  the  strength  of  his  manhood  and  of  his 
passion,  and  that  the  life  he  had  chosen  was  of  all  lives 
the  one  calculated  to  make  love  sad  and  terrible. 

206 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Helen  Rayner  haunted  him.  In  the  sunlight  there  was 
not  a  place  around  camp  which  did  not  picture  her  lithe, 
vigorous  body,  her  dark,  thoughtful  eyes,  her  eloquent, 
resolute  lips,  and  the  smile  that  was  so  sweet  and  strong. 
At  night  she  was  there  like  a  slender  specter,  pacing 
beside  him  under  the  moaning  pines.  Every  camp-fire 
held  in  its  heart  the  glowing  white  radiance  of  her 
spirit. 

Nature  had  taught  Dale  to  love  solitude  and  silence,  but 
love  itself  taught  him  their  meaning.  Solitude  had  been 
created  for  the  eagle  on  his  crag,  for  the  blasted  mountain 
fir,  lonely  and  gnarled  on  its  peak,  for  the  elk  and  the 
wolf.  But  it  had  not  been  intended  for  man.  And  to  live 
always  in  the  silence  of  wild  places  was  to  become  obsessed 
with  self — to  think  and  dream — to  be  happy,  which  state, 
however  pursued  by  man,  was  not  good  for  him.  Man 
must  be  given  imperious  longings  for  the  unattainable. 

It  needed,  then,  only  the  memory  of  an  unattainable 
woman  to  render  solitude  passionately  desired  by  a  man, 
yet  almost  unendurable.  Dale  was  alone  with  his  secret; 
and  every  pine,  everything  in  that  park  saw  him  shaken 
and  undone. 

In  the  dark,  pitchy  deadness  of  night,  when  there  was 
no  wind  and  the  cold  on  the  peaks  had  frozen  the  water- 
fall, then  the  silence  seemed  insupportable.  Many  hours 
that  should  have  been  given  to  slumber  were  paced  out 
under  the  cold,  white,  pitiless  stars,  under  the  lonely  pines. 

Dale's  memory  betrayed  him,  mocked  his  restraint, 
cheated  him  of  any  peace;  and  his  imagination,  sharpened 
by  love,  created  pictures,  fancies,  feelings,  that  drove  him 
frantic. 

He  thought  of  Helen  Rayner's  strong,  shapely  brown 
hand.  In  a  thousand  different  actions  it  haunted  him. 
How  quick  and  deft  in  camp-fire  tasks!  how  graceful  and 
swift  as  she  plaited  her  dark  hair!  how  tender  and  skil- 
ful in  its  ministration  when  one  of  his  pets  had  been 
injured!  how  eloquent  when  pressed  tight  against  her 

207 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

breast  in  a  moment  of  fear  on  the  dangerous  heights!  hew 
expressive  of  unutterable  things  when  laid  on  his  arm! 

Dale  saw  that  beautiful  hand  slowly  creep  up  his  arm, 
across  his  shoulder,  and  slide  round  his  neck  to  clasp 
there.  He  was  powerless  to  inhibit  the  picture.  And 
what  he  felt  then  was  boundless,  unutterable.  No 
woman  had  ever  yet  so  much  as  clasped  his  hand,  and 
heretofore  no  such  imaginings  had  ever  crossed  his  mind, 
yet  deep  in  him,  somewhere  hidden,  had  been  this  wait- 
ing, sweet,  and  imperious  need.  In  the  bright  day  he 
appeared  to  ward  off  such  fancies,  but  at  night  he  was 
helpless.  And  every  fancy  left  him  weaker,  wilder. 

When,  at  the  culmination  of  this  phase  of  his  passion, 
Dale,  who  had  never  known  the  touch  of  a  woman's  lips, 
suddenly  yielded  to  the  illusion  of  Helen  Rayner's  kisses, 
he  found  himself  quite  mad,  filled  with  rapture  and  de- 
spair, loving  her  as  he  hated  himself.  It  seemed  as  if  he 
had  experienced  all  these  terrible  feelings  in  some  former 
life  and  had  forgotten  them  in  this  life.  He  had  no  right 
to  think  of  her,  but  he  could  not  resist  it.  Imagining  the 
sweet  surrender  of  her  lips  was  a  sacrilege,  yet  here,  in 
spite  of  will  and  honor  and  shame,  he  was  lost. 

Dale,  at  length,  was  vanquished,  and  he  ceased  to  rail 
at  himself,  or  restrain  his  fancies.  He  became  a  dreamy, 
sad-eyed,  camp-fire  gazer,  like  many  another  lonely  man, 
separated,  by  chance  or  error,  from  what  the  heart  hun- 
gered most  for.  But  this  great  experience,  when  all  its 
significance  had  clarified  in  his  mind,  immeasurably 
broadened  his  understanding  of  the  principles  of  nature 
applied  to  life. 

Love  had  been  in  him  stronger  than  in  most  men,  be- 
cause of  his  keen,  vigorous,  lonely  years  in  the  forest, 
where  health  of  mind  and  body  were  intensified  and  pre- 
served. How  simple,  how  natural,  how  inevitable!  He 
might  have  loved  any  fine-spirited,  healthy-bodied  girl. 
Like  a  tree  shooting  its  branches  and  leaves,  its  whole 
entity,  toward  the  sunlight,  so  had  he  grown  toward  a 

208 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

woman's  love.  Why?  Because  the  thing  he  revered  in 
nature,  the  spirit,  the  universal,  the  life  that  was  God, 
had  created  at  his  birth  or  before  his  birth  the  three  tre- 
mendous instincts  of  nature — to  fight  for  life,  to  feed 
himself,  to  reproduce  his  kind.  That  was  all  there  was 
to  it.  But  oh!  the  mystery,  the  beauty,  the  torment, 
and  the  terror  of  this  third  instinct — this  hunger  for  the 
sweetness  and  the  glory  of  a  woman's  love! 


CHAPTER  XVI 

HELEN  RAYNER  dropped  her  knitting  into  her  lap 
and  sat  pensively  gazing  out  of  the  window  over 
the  bare  yellow  ranges  of  her  uncle's  ranch. 

The  winter  day  was  bright,  but  steely,  and  the  wind 
that  whipped  down  from  the  white-capped  mountains 
had  a  keen,  frosty  edge.  A  scant  snow  lay  in  protected 
places;  cattle  stood  bunched  in  the  lee  of  ridges;  low 
sheets  of  dust  scurried  across  the  flats. 

The  big  living-room  of  the  ranch-house  was  warm  and 
comfortable  with  its  red  adobe  walls,  its  huge  stone  fire- 
place where  cedar  logs  blazed,  and  its  many-colored  blan- 
kets. Bo  Rayner  sat  before  the  fire,  curled  up  in  an  arm- 
chair, absorbed  in  a  book.  On  the  floor  lay  the  hound 
Pedro,  his  racy,  fine  head  stretched  toward  the  warmth. 

"Did  uncle  call?"  asked  Helen,  with  a  start  out  of  her 
reverie. 

"I  didn't  hear  him,"  replied  Bo. 

Helen  rose  to  tiptoe  across  the  floor,  and,  softly  parting 
some  curtains,  she  looked  into  the  room  where  her  uncle 
lay.  He  was  asleep.  Sometimes  he  called  out  in  his 
slumbers.  For  weeks  now  he  had  been  confined  to  his 
bed,  slowly  growing  weaker.  With  a  sigh  Helen  returned 
to  her  window-seat  and  took  up  her  work. 

"Bo,  the  sun  is  bright,"  she  said.  "The  days  are 
growing  longer.  I'm  so  glad." 

"Nell,  you're  always  wishing  time  away.  For  me  it 
passes  quickly  enough,"  replied  the  sister. 

"But  I  love  spring  and  summer  and  fall — and  I  guess 
I  hate  winter,"  returned  Helen,  thoughtfully. 

210 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

The  yellow  ranges  rolled  away  up  to  the  black  ridges 
and  they  in  turn  swept  up  to  the  cold,  white  mountains. 
Helen's  gaze  seemed  to  go  beyond  that  snowy  barrier. 
And  Bo's  keen  eyes  studied  her  sister's  earnest,  sad 
face. 

"Nell,  do  you  ever  think  of  Dale?"  she  queried,  sud- 
denly. 

The  question  startled  Helen.  A  slow  blush  suffused 
neck  and  cheek. 

"Of  course,"  she  replied,  as  if  surprised  that  Bo  should 
ask  such  a  thing. 

"I — I  shouldn't  have  asked  that,"  said  Bo,  softly,  and 
then  bent  again  over  her  book. 

Helen  gazed  tenderly  at  that  bright,  bowed  head.  In 
this  swift-flying,  eventful,  busy  winter,  during  which  the 
management  of  the  ranch  had  devolved  wholly  upon 
Helen,  the  little  sister  had  grown  away  from  her.  Bo 
had  insisted  upon  her  own  free  will  and  she  had  followed 
it,  to  the  amusement  of  her  uncle,  to  the  concern  of  Helen, 
to  the  dismay  and  bewilderment  of  the  faithful  Mexican 
housekeeper,  and  to  the  undoing  of  all  the  young  men  on 
the  ranch. 

Helen  had  always  been  hoping  and  waiting  for  a  favor- 
able hour  in  which  she  might  find  this  wilful  sister  once 
more  susceptible  to  wise  and  loving  influence.  But  while 
she  hesitated  to  speak,  slow  footsteps  and  a  jingle  of  spurs 
sounded  without,  and  then  came  a  timid  knock.  Bo 
looked  up  brightly  and  ran  to  open  the  door. 

"Oh!  It's  only — you!"  she  uttered,  in  withering  scorn, 
to  the  one  who  knocked. 

Helen  thought  she  could  guess  who  that  was. 

"How  are  you-all?"  asked  a  drawling  voice. 

"Well,  Mister  Carmichael,  if  that  interests  you — I'm 
quite  ill,"  replied  Bo,  freezingly. 

"111!    Aw  no,  now?" 

"It's  a  fact.  If  I  don't  die  right  off  I'll  have  to  be 
taken  back  to  Missouri,"  said  Bo,  casually. 

211 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Are  you  goin'  to  ask  me  in?"  queried  Carmichael, 
bluntly.  "It's  cold — an'  I've  got  somethin'  to  say  to — " 

"To  me?  Well,  you're  not  backward,  I  declare,"  re- 
torted Bo. 

"Miss  Rayner,  I  reckon  it  '11  be  strange  to  you — findin' 
out  I  didn't  come  to  see  you." 

"Indeed!  No.  But  what  was  strange  was  the  deluded 
idea  I  had — that  you  meant  to  apologize  to  me — like  a 
gentleman.  .  .  .  Come  in,  Mr.  Carmichael.  My  sister  is 
here." 

The  door  closed  as  Helen  turned  round.  Carmichael 
stood  just  inside  with  his  sombrero  in  hand,  and  as  he 
gazed  at  Bo  his  lean  face  seemed  hard.  In  the  few  months 
since  autumn  he  had  changed — aged,  it  seemed,  and  the 
once  young,  frank,  alert,  and  careless  cowboy  traits  had 
merged  into  the  making  of  a  man.  Helen  knew  just  how 
much  of  a  man  he  really  was.  He  had  been  her  mainstay 
during  all  the  complex  working  of  the  ranch  that  had 
fallen  upon  her  shoulders. 

"Wai,  I  reckon  you  was  deluded,  all  right — if  you 
thought  I'd  crawl  like  them  other  lovers  of  yours,"  he 
said,  with  cool  deliberation. 

Bo  turned  pale,  and  her  eyes  fairly  blazed,  yet  even  in 
what  must  have  been  her  fury  Helen  saw  amaze  and  pain. 

"Other  lovers?  I  think  the  biggest  delusion  here  is  the 
way  you  flatter  yourself,"  replied  Bo,  stingingly. 

"Me  flatter  myself?  Nope.  You  don't  savvy  me.  I'm 
shore  hatin'  myself  these  days." 

"Small  wonder.  I  certainly  hate  you — with  all  my 
heart!" 

At  this  retort  the  cowboy  dropped  his  head  and  did  not 
see  Bo  flaunt  herself  out  of  the  room.  But  he  heard  the 
door  close,  and  then  slowly  came  toward  Helen. 

"Cheer  up,  Las  Vegas,"  said  Helen,  smiling.  "Bo's 
hot-tempered." 

"Miss  Nell,  I'm  just  like  a  dog.  The  meaner  she 
treats  me  the  more  I  love  her,"  he  replied,  dejectedly. 

212 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

To  Helen's  first  instinct  of  liking  for  this  cowboy  there 
had  been  added  admiration,  respect,  and  a  growing  ap- 
preciation of  strong,  faithful,  developing  character.  Car- 
michael's  face  and  hands  were  red  and  chapped  from 
winter  winds;  the  leather  of  wrist-bands,  belt,  and  boots 
was  all  worn  shiny  and  thin;  little  streaks  of  dust  fell 
from  him  as  he  breathed  heavily.  He  no  longer  looked 
£he  dashing  cowboy,  ready  for  a  dance  or  lark  or  fight 

"How  in  the  world  did  you  offend  her  so?"  asked 
Helen.  "Bo  is  furious.  I  never  saw  her  so  angry  as 
that." 

"Miss  Nell,  it  was  jest  this  way,"  began  Carmichael. 
"Shore  Bo's  knowed  I  was  in  love  with  her.  I  asked  her 
to  marry  me  an'  she  wouldn't  say  yes  or  no.  ...  An', 
mean  as  it  sounds — she  never  run  away  from  it,  thet's 
shore.  We've  had  some  quarrels — two  of  them  bad,  an' 
this  last's  the  worst." 

"Bo  told  me  about  one  quarrel,"  said  Helen.  "It  was 
— because  you  drank — that  time." 

"Shore  it  was.  She  took  one  of  her  cold  spells  an'  I 
jest  got  drunk." 

"But  that  was  wrong,"  protested  Helen. 

"I  ain't  so  shore.  You  see,  I  used  to  get  drunk  often 
—before  I  come  here.  An'  I've  been  drunk  only  once. 
Back  at  Las  Vegas  the  outfit  would  never  believe  thet. 
Wai,  I  promised  Bo  I  wouldn't  do  it  again,  an1  I've  kept 
my  word." 

"That  is  fine  of  you.  But  tell  me,  why  is  she  angry 
now?" 

"Bo  makes  up  to  all  the  fellars,"  confessed  Carmichael, 
hanging  his  head.  "I  took  her  to  the  dance  last  week — 
over  in  the  town-hall.  Thet's  the  first  time  she'd  gone 
anywhere  with  me.  I  shore  was  proud.  .  .  .  But  thet 
dance  was  hell.  Bo  carried  on  somethin'  tumble,  an'  I — " 

"Tell  me.  What  did  she  do?"  demanded  Helen,  anx- 
iously. "I'm  responsible  for  her.  I've  got  to  see  that 
she  behaves." 

213 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Aw,  I  ain't  sayin'  she  didn't  behave  like  a  lady,*'  re- 
plied Carmichael.  "It  was — she — wal,  all  them  fellars 
are  fools  over  her — an'  Bo  wasn't  true  to  me." 

"My  dear  boy,  is  Bo  engaged  to  you?" 

"Lord — if  she  only  was!"  he  sighed. 

"Then  how  can  you  say  she  wasn't  true  to  you?  Be 
reasonable." 

"I  reckon  now,  Miss  Nell,  thet  no  one  can  be  in  love 
an'  act  reasonable,"  rejoined  the  cowboy.  "I  don't 
know  how  to  explain,  but  the  fact  is  I  feel  thet  Bo  has 
played  the — the  devil  with  me  an'  all  the  other  fellars." 

"You  mean  she  has  flirted?" 

"I  reckon." 

"Las  Vegas,  I'm  afraid  you're  right,"  said  Helen,  with 
growing  apprehension.  "Go  on.  Tell  me  what's  hap- 
pened." 

"Wal,  thet  Turner  boy,  who  rides  for  Beasley,  he  was 
hot  after  Bo,"  returned  Carmichael,  and  he  spoke  as  if 
memory  hurt  him.  "Reckon  I've  no  use  for  Turner. 
He's  a  fine-lookin',  strappin',  big  cow-puncher,  an'  calcu- 
lated to  win  the  girls.  He  brags  thet  he  can,  an'  I  reckon 
he's  right.  Wal,  he  was  always  hangin'  round  Bo.  An' 
he  stole  one  of  my  dances  with  Bo.  I  only  had  three,  an' 
he  comes  up  to  say  this  one  was  his.  Bo,  very  innocent 
— oh,  she's  a  cute  one! — she  says,  'Why,  Mister  Turner 
— is  it  really  yours?'  An*  she  looked  so  full  of  joy  thet 
when  he  says  to  me,  'Excoose  us,  friend  Carmichael,'  I 
sat  there  like  a  locoed  jackass  an'  let  them  go.  But  I 
wasn't  mad  at  thet.  He  was  a  better  dancer  than  me  an' 
I  wanted  her  to  have  a  good  time.  What  started  the  hell 
was  I  seen  him  put  his  arm  round  her  when  it  wasn't  just 
time,  accordin'  to  the  dance,  an'  Bo — she  didn't  break 
any  records  gettin'  away  from  him.  She  pushed  him 
away — after  a  little — after  I  near  died.  Wal,  on  the  way 
home  I  had  to  tell  her.  I  shore  did.  An'  she  said  what 
I'd  love  to  forget.  Then — then,  Miss  Nell,  I  grabbed 
her — it  was  outside  here  by  the  porch  an'  all  bright  moon- 

214 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

light — I  grabbed  her  an'  hugged  an'  kissed  her  good. 
"iVhen  I  let  her  go  I  says,  sorta  brave,  but  I  was  plumb 
scared — I  says,  'Wai,  are  you  goin'  to  marry  me  now?'" 

He  concluded  with  a  gulp,  and  looked  at  Helen  with 
woe  in  his  eyes. 

"Oh!     What  did  Bo  do?"  breathlessly  queried  Helen. 

"She  slapped  me,"  he  replied.  "An'  then  she  says, 
'I  did  like  you  best,  but  now  I  hate  you!'  An'  she 
slammed  the  door  in  my  face." 

"  I  think  you  made  a  great  mistake,"  said  Helen,  gravely. 

"Wai,  if  I  thought  so  I'd  beg  her  forgiveness.  But  I 
reckon  I  don't.  What's  more,  I  feel  better  than  before. 
I'm  only  a  cowboy  an'  r  ever  was  much  good  till  I  met  her. 
Then  I  braced.  I  got  to  havin'  hopes,  studyin'  books,  an' 
you  know  how  I've  been  lookin'  into  this  ranchin'  game. 
I  stopped  drinkin'  an'  saved  my  money.  Wai,  she  knows 
all  thet.  Once  she  said  she  was  proud  of  me.  But  it 
didn't  seem  to  count  big  with  her.  An'  if  it  can't  count 
big  I  don't  want  it  to  count  at  all.  I  reckon  the  madder 
Bo  is  at  me  the  more  chance  I've  got.  She  knows  I  love 
her — thet  I'd  die  for  her — thet  I'm  a  changed  man.  An' 
she  knows  I  never  before  thought  of  darin'  to  touch  her 
hand.  An*  she  knows  she  flirted  with  Turner." 

"She's  only  a  child,"  replied  Helen.  "And  all  this 
change — the  West — the  wildness — and  you  boys  making 
much  of  her — why,  it's  turned  her  head.  But  Bo  will  come 
out  of  it  true  blue.  She  is  good,  loving.  Her  heart  is  gold." 

"I  reckon  I  know,  an'  my  faith  can't  be  shook,''  re- 
joined Carmichael,  simply.  "But  she  ought  to  believe 
thet  she'll  make  bad  blood  out  here.  The  West  is  the  West. 
Any  kind  of  girls  are  scarce.  An'  one  like  Bo —  Lord! 
we  cowboys  never  seen  none  to  compare  with  her.  She'll 
make  bad  blood  an'  some  of  it  will  be  spilled." 

"Uncle  Al  encourages  her,"  said  Helen,  apprehensively. 
"It  tickles  him  to  hear  how  the  boys  are  after  her.  Oh, 
she  doesn't  tell  him.  But  he  hears.  And  I,  who  must  stand 
in  mother's  place  to  her,  what  can  I  do?" 

215 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Miss  Nell,  are  you  on  my  side?"  asked  the  cowboy, 
wistfully.  He  was  strong  and  elemental,  caught  in  the 
toils  of  some  power  beyond  him. 

Yesterday  Helen  might  have  hesitated  at  that  question. 
But  to-day  Carmichael  brought  some  proven  quality  of 
loyalty,  some  strange  depth  of  rugged  sincerity,  as  if  she 
had  learned  his  future  worth. 

"Yes,  I  am,"  Helen  replied,  earnestly.  And  she  offered 
her  hand. 

"Wai,  then  it  '11  shore  turn  out  happy,"  he  said, 
squeezing  her  hand.  His  smile  was  grateful,  but  there 
was  nothing  in  it  of  the  victory  he  hinted  at.  Some 
of  his  ruddy  color  had  gone.  "An'  now  I  want  to  tell 
you  why  I  come." 

He  had  lowered  his  voice.  "Is  Al  asleep?"  he 
whispered. 

"Yes,"  replied  Helen.    "He  was  a  little  while  ago." 

"Reckon  I'd  better  shut  his  door." 

Helen  watched  the  cowboy  glide  across  the  room  and 
carefully  close  the  door,  then  return  to  her  with  intent  eyes. 
She  sensed  events  in  his  look,  and  she  divined  suddenly 
that  he  must  feel  as  if  he  were  her  brother. 

"Shore  I'm  the  one  thet  fetches  all  the  bad  news  to 
you,"  he  said,  regretfully. 

Helen  caught  her  breath.  There  had  indeed  been  many 
little  calamities  to  mar  her  management  of  the  ranch — 
loss  of  cattle,  horses,  sheep — the  desertion  of  herders  to 
Beasiey — failure  of  freighters  to  arrive  when  most  needed 
• — fights  among  the  cowboys — and  disagreements  over 
long-arranged  deals. 

"Your  uncle  Al  makes  a  heap  of  this  here  Jeff  Mulvey," 
asserted  Carmichael. 

"Yes,  indeed.  Uncle  absolutely  relies  on  Jeff,"  replied 
Helen. 

"Wai,  I  hate  to  tell  you,  Miss  Nell,"  said  the  cowboy, 
bitterly,  "thet  Mulvey  ain't  the  man  he  seems." 

"Oh,  what  do  you  mean?" 

216 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"When  your  uncle  dies  Mulvey  is  goin'  over  to 
Beasley  an'  he's  goin'  to  take  all  the  fellars  who'll 
stick  to  him." 

"Could  Jeff  be  so  faithless — after  so  many  years  my 
uncle's  foreman?  Oh,  how  do  you  know?" 

"Reckon  I  guessed  long  ago.  But  wasn't  shore.  Miss 
Nell,  there's  a  lot  in  the  wind  lately,  as  poor  old  Al  grows 
weaker.  Mulvey  has  been  particular  friendly  to  me  an' 
I've  nursed  him  along,  'cept  I  wouldn't  drink.  An'  his 
pards  have  been  particular  friends  with  me,  too,  more  an' 
more  as  I  loosened  up.  You  see,  they  was  shy  of  me  when 
I  first  got  here.  To-day  the  whole  deal  showed  clear  to 
me  like  a  hoof  track  in  soft  ground.  Bud  Lewis,  who's 
bunked  with  me,  come  out  an*  tried  to  win  me  over  to 
Beasley — soon  as  Auchincloss  dies.  I  palavered  with  Bud 
an'  I  wanted  to  know.  But  Bud  would  only  say  he  was 
goin'  along  with  Jeff  an'  others  of  the  outfit.  I  told  him 
I'd  reckon  over  it  an'  let  him  know.  He  thinks  I'll  come 
round." 

"Why — why  will  these  men  leave  me  when — when — 
Oh,  poor  uncle!  They  bargain  on  his  death.  But  why — tell 
me  why?" 

"Beasley  has  worked  on  them — won  them  over,"  replied 
Carmichael,  grimly.  "After  Al  dies  the  ranch  will  go  to 
you.  Beasley  means  to  have  it.  He  an'  Al  was  pards 
once,  an'  now  Beasley  has  most  folks  here  believin'  he  got 
the  short  end  of  thet  deal.  He'll  have  papers — shore — 
an'  he'll  have  most  of  the  men.  So  he'll  just  put  you  off 
an'  take  possession.  Thet's  all,  Miss  Nell,  an'  you  can 
rely  on  its  bein'  true." 

"I — I  believe  you — but  I  can't  believe  such — such  rob- 
bery possible,"  gasped  Helen. 

"It's  simple  as  two  an'  two.  Possession  is  law  out  here. 
Once  Beasley  gets  on  the  ground  it's  settled.  What  could 
you  do  with  no  men  to  fight  for  your  property?" 

"But,  surely,  some  of  the  men  will  stay  with  me?" 

"I  reckon.  But  not  enough." 
16  217 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"Then  I  can  hire  more.  The  Beeman  boys.  And  Dale 
would  come  to  help  me." 

"Dale  would  come.  An'  he'd  help  a  heap.  I  wish  he 
was  here,"  replied  Carmichael,  soberly.  "But  there's  no 
way  to  get  him.  He's  sno wed-up  till  May." 

"I  dare  not  confide  in  uncle,"  said  Helen,  with  agita- 
tion. "The  shock  might  kill  him.  Then  to  tell  him  of 
the  unfaithfulness  of  his  old  men — that  would  be  cruel. 
.  .  .  Oh,  it  can't  be  so  bad  as  you  think." 

"I  reckon  it  couldn't  be  no  worse.  An' — Miss  Nell, 
there's  only  one  way  to  get  out  of  it — an'  thet's  the  way 
of  the  West." 

"How?"  queried  Helen,  eagerly. 

Carmichael  lunged  himself  erect  and  stood  gazing  down 
at  her.  He  seemed  completely  detached  now  from  that 
frank,  amiable  cowboy  of  her  first  impressions.  The 
redness  was  totally  gone  from  his  face.  Something  strange 
and  cold  and  sure  looked  out  of  his  eyes. 

"I  seen  Beasley  go  in  the  saloon  as  I  rode  past.  Sup- 
pose I  go  down  there,  pick  a  quarrel  with  him — an'  kill 
him?" 

Helen  sat  bolt-upright  with  a  cold  shock. 

"Carmichael!  you're  not  serious?"  she  exclaimed. 

"Serious?  I  shore  am.  Thet's  the  only  way,  Miss 
Nell.  An'  I  reckon  it's  what  Al  would  want.  An' — 
between  you  an*  me — it  would  be  easier  than  ropin'  a 
calf.  These  fellars  round  Pine  don't  savvy  guns.  New, 
I  come  from  where  guns  mean  somethin'.  An'  when  I 
tell  you  I  can  throw  a  gun  slick  an'  fast,  why  I  shore 
ain't  braggin'.  You  needn't  worry  none  about  mei 
Miss  Nell." 

Helen  grasped  that  he  had  taken  the  signs  of  hef 
shocked  sensibility  to  mean  she  feared  for  his  life.  But 
what  had  sickened  her  was  the  mere  idea  of  bloodshed  in 
her  behalf. 

"You'd — kill  Beasley — just  because  there  are  rumors 
of  his — treachery?"  gasped  Helen. 

218 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"Shore.  It  '11  have  to  be  done,  anyhow,"  replied  the 
cowboy. 

"No!  No!  It's  too  dreadful  to  think  of.  Why,  that 
would  be  murder.  I — I  can't  understand  how  you  speak 
of  it — so — so  calmly." 

"Reckon  I  ain't  doin'  it  calmly.  I'm  as  mad  as  hell," 
said  Carmichael,  with  a  reckless  smile. 

"Oh,  if  you  are  serious  then,  I  say  no — no — no!  I  for- 
bid you.  I  don't  believe  I'll  be  robbed  of  my  property." 

"Wai,  supposin'  Beasley  does  put  you  off — an'  takes 
possession.  What  're  you  goin*  to  say  then?"  demanded 
the  cowboy,  in  slow,  cool  deliberation. 

"I'd  say  the  same  then  as  now,"  she  replied. 

He  bent  his  head  thoughtfully  while  his  red  hands 
smoothed  his  sombrero. 

"Shore  you  girls  haven't  been  West  very  long,"  he 
muttered,  as  if  apologizing  for  them.  "An'  I  reckon  it 
takes  time  to  learn  the  ways  of  a  country." 

"West  or  no  West,  I  won't  have  fights  deliberately 
picked,  and  men  shot,  even  if  they  do  threaten  me,"  de- 
clared Helen,  positively. 

"All  right,  Miss  Nell,  shore  I  respect  your  wishes,"  he 
returned.  "But  I'll  tell  you  this.  If  Beasley  turns  you 
an'  Bo  out  of  your  home — wal,  I'll  look  him  up  on  my  own 
account." 

Helen  could  only  gaze  at  him  as  he  backed  to  the  door, 
and  she  thrilled  and  shuddered  at  what  seemed  his  loyalty 
to  her,  his  love  for  Bo,  and  that  which  was  inevitable  in 
himself. 

"Reckon  you  might  save  us  all  some  trouble — now — 
if  yoti'd — just  get  mad — an'  let  me  go  after  thet  greaser." 

' '  Greaser !     Do  you  mean  B easley  ? ' ' 

"Shore.  He's  a  half-breed.  He  was  born  in  Mag- 
dalena,  where  I  heard  folks  say  nary  one  of  his  parents 
was  no  good." 

"That  doesn't  matter.  I'm  thinking  of  humanity—- 
of law  and  order.  Of  what  is  right." 

219 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Wai,  Miss  Nell,  I'll  wait  till  you  get  real  mad— or  till 
Beasley—  " 

"But,  my  friend,  I'll  not  get  mad,"  interrupted  Helen. 
"I'll  keep  my  temper." 

"I'll  bet  you  don't,"  he  retorted.  "Mebbe  you  think 
you've  none  of  Bo  in  you.  But  I'll  bet  you  could  get  so 
mad — once  you  started — thet  you'd  be  tumble.  What  've 
you  got  them  eyes  for,  Miss  Nell,  if  you  ain't  an  Auchin- 
closs?" 

He  was  smiling,  yet  he  meant  every  word.  Helen  felt 
the  truth  as  something  she  feared. 

"Las  Vegas,  I  won't  bet.  But  you — you  will  always 
come  to  me — first — i£  there's  trouble." 

"I  promise,"  he  replied,  soberly,  and  then  went  out. 

Helen  found  that  she  was  trembling,  and  that  there 
was  a  commotion  in  her  breast.  Carmichael  had  fright- 
ened her.  No  longer  did  she  hold  doubt  of  the  gravity 
of  the  situation.  She  had  seen  Beasley  often,  several 
times  close  at  hand,  and  once  she  had  been  forced  to  meet 
him.  That  time  had  convinced  her  that  he  had  evinced 
personal  interest  in  her.  And  on  this  account,  coupled 
with  the  fact  that  Riggs  appeared  to  have  nothing  else  to 
do  but  shadow  her,  she  had  been  slow  in  developing  her 
intention  of  organizing  and  teaching  a  school  for  the 
children  of  Pine.  Riggs  had  become  rather  a  doubtful 
celebrity  in  the  settlements.  Yet  his  bold,  apparent  bad- 
ness had  made  its  impression.  From  all  reports  he  spent 
his  time  gambling,  drinking,  and  bragging.  It  was  no 
longer  news  in  Pine  what  his  intentions  were  toward 
Helen  Rayner.  Twice  he  had  ridden  up  to  the  ranch- 
house,  upon  one  occasion  securing  an  interview  with 
Helen.  In  spite  of  her  contempt  and  indifference,  he  was 
actually  influencing  her  life  there  in  Pine.  And  it  began 
to  appear  that  the  other  man,  Beasley,  might  soon  direct 
stronger  significance  upon  the  liberty  of  her  actions. 

The  responsibility  of  the  ranch  had  turned  out  to  be  a 
heavy  burden.  It  could  not  be  managed,  at  least  by  her, 

220 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

in  the  way  Auchincloss  wanted  it  done.  He  was  old, 
irritable,  irrational,  and  hard.  Almost  all  the  neighbors 
were  set  against  him,  and  naturally  did  not  take  kindly 
to  Helen. 

She  had  not  found  the  slightest  evidence  of  unfair  deal- 
ing on  the  part  of  her  uncle,  but  he  had  been  a  hard  driver. 
Then  his  shrewd,  far-seeing  judgment  had  made  all  his 
deals  fortunate  for  him,  which  fact  had  not  brought  a 
profit  of  friendship. 

Of  late,  since  Auchincloss  had  grown  weaker  and  less 
dominating,  Helen  had  taken  many  decisions  upon  her- 
self, with  gratifying  and  hopeful  results.  But  the  wonderful 
happiness  that  she  had  expected  to  find  in  the  West  still 
held  aloof.  The  memory  of  Paradise  Park  seemed  only  a 
dream,  sweeter  and  more  intangible  as  time  passed,  and 
fuller  of  vague  regrets.  Bo  was  a  comfort,  but  also  a  very 
considerable  source  of  anxiety.  She  might  have  been  a 
help  to  Helen  if  she  had  not  assimilated  Western  ways  so 
swiftly.  Helen  wished  to  decide  things  in  her  own  way, 
which  was  as  yet  quite  far  from  Western.  So  Helen  had 
been  thrown  more  and  more  upon  her  own  resources,  with 
the  cowboy  Carmichael  the  only  one  who  had  come  for- 
ward voluntarily  to  her  aid. 

For  an  hour  Helen  sat  alone  in  the  room,  looking  out  of 
the  window,  and  facing  stern  reality  with  a  colder,  graver, 
Keener  sense  of  intimacy  than  ever  before.  To  hold  her 
property  and  to  live  her  life  in  this  community  according 
to  her  ideas  of  honesty,  justice,  and  law  might  well  be 
beyond  her  powers.  To-day  she  had  been  convinced  that 
she  could  not  do  so  without  fighting  for  them,  and  to 
fight  she  must  have  friends.  That  conviction  warmed  her 
toward  Carmichael,  and  a  thoughtful  consideration  of  all 
he  had  done  for  her  proved  that  she  had  not  fully  appre- 
ciated him.  She  would  make  up  for  her  oversight. 

There  were  no  Mormons  in  her  employ,  for  the  good 
reason  that  Auchincloss  would  not  hire  them.  But  in  one 
of  his  kindlier  hours,  growing  rare  now,  he  had  admitted 

221 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

that  the  Mormons  were  the  best  and  the  most  sober, 
faithful  workers  on  the  ranges,  and  that  his  sole  ob- 
jection to  them  was  just  this  fact  of  their  superiority. 
Helen  decided  to  hire  the  four  Beemans  and  any  of  their 
relatives  or  friends  who  would  come;  and  to  do  this,  if 
possible,  without  letting  her  uncle  know.  His  temper  now, 
as  well  as  his  judgment,  was  a  hindrance  to  efficiency. 
This  decision  regarding  the  Beemans  brought  Helen 
back  to  Carmichael's  fervent  wish  for  Dale,  and  then 
to  her  own. 

Soon  spring  would  be  at  hand,  with  its  multiplicity  of 
range  tasks.  Dale  had  promised  to  come  to  Pine  then,  and 
Helen  knew  that  promise  would  be  kept.  Her  heart  beat 
a  little  faster,  in  spite  of  her  business-centered  thoughts. 
Dale  was  there,  over  the  black-sloped,  snowy-tipped 
mountain,  shut  away  from  the  world.  Helen  almost  envied 
him.  No  wonder  he  loved  loneliness,  solitude,  the  sweet, 
wild  silence  and  beauty  of  Paradise  Park !  But  he  was  self- 
ish, and  Helen  meant  to  show  him  that.  She  needed  his 
help.  When  she  recalled  his  physical  prowess  with  animals, 
and  imagined  what  it  must  be  in  relation  to  men,  sne 
actually  smiled  at  the  thought  of  Beasley  forcing  her  off 
her  property,  if  Dale  were  there.  Beasley  would  only  force 
disaster  upon  himself.  Then  Helen  experienced  a  quick 
shock.  Would  Dale  answer  to  this  situation  as  Carmichael 
had  answered?  It  afforded  her  relief  to  assure  herself  to 
the  contrary.  The  cowboy  was  one  of  a  blood-letting  breed; 
the  hunter  was  a  man  of  thought,  gentleness,  humanity. 
This  situation  was  one  of  the  kind  that  had  made  him 
despise  the  littleness  of  men.  Helen  assured  herself  that 
he  was  different  from  her  uncle  and  from  the  cowboy,  in 
all  the  relations  01  life  which  she  had  observed  while  with 
him.  But  a  doubt  lingered  in  her  mind.  She  remembered 
his  calm  reference  to  Snake  Anson,  and  that  caused  a 
recurrence  of  the  little  shiver  Carmichael  had  given  her. 
When  the  doubt  augmented  to  a  possibility  that  she  might 
not  be  able  to  control  Dale,  then  she  tried  not  to  think  of 

32? 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

it  any  more.  It  confused  and  perplexed  her  that  into  hei 
mind  should  flash  a  thought  that,  though  it  would  be 
dreadful  for  Carmichael  to  kill  Beasley,  for  Dale  to  do 
it  would  be  a  calamity — a  terrible  thing.  Helen  did 
not  analyze  that  strange  thought.  She  was  as  afraid 
of  it  as  she  was  of  the  stir  in  her  blood  when  she 
visualized  *£)ale. 

Her  meditation  was  interrupted  by  Bo,  who  entered 
the  room,  rebellious-eyed  and  very  lofty.  Her  manner 
changed,  which  apparently  owed  its  cause  to  the  fact  that 
Helen  was  alone. 

"Is  that — cowboy  gone?"  she  asked. 
"Yes.    He  left  quite  some  time  ago,"  replied  Helen. 
"I  wondered  if  he  made  your  eyes  shine — your  color 
burn  so.     Nell,  you're  just  beautiful." 

"Is  my  face  burning?"  asked  Helen,  with  a  little  laugh. 
"So  it  is.  Well,  Bo,  you've  no  cause  for  jealousy.  Las 
Vegas  can't  be  blamed  for  my  blushes." 

"Jealous!  Me?  Of  that  wild-eyed,  soft-voiced,  two-faced 
cow-puncher?  I  guess  not,  Nell  Rayner.  What  'd  he  say 
about  me?" 

"Bo,  he  said  a  lot,"  replied  Helen,  reflectively.  "I'll 
tell  you  presently.  First  I  want  to  ask  you — has  Car- 
michael ever  told  you  how  he's  helped  me?" 

"No!  When  I  see  him — which  hasn't  been  often  lately—' 
he— I—  Well,  we  fight.  Nell,  has  he  helped  you?" 

Helen  smiled  in  faint  amusement.  She  was  going  to  be 
sincere,  but  she  meant  to  keep  her  word  to  the  cowboy. 
The  fact  was  that  reflection  had  acquainted  her  with  her 
indebtedness  to  Carmichael. 

"Bo,  you've  been  so  wild  to  ride  half -broken  mustangs 
— and  carry  on  with  cowboys — and  read — and  sew — and 
keep  your  secrets  that  you've  had  no  time  for  your  sister 
or  her  troubles." 

"Nell!"  burst  out  Bo,  in  amaze  and  pain.    She  flew  to 
Helen  and  seized  her  hands.   "What  're  you  saying?" 
"It's  all  true,"  replied  Helen,  thrilling  and  softening. 

223 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

This  sweet  sister,  once  aroused,  would  be  hard  to  resist. 
Helen  imagined  she  should  hold  to  her  tone  of  reproach 
and  severity, 

"Sure  it's  true,'*  cried  Bo,  fiercely.  "But  what's  my — 
fooling  got  to  do  with  the — the  rest  you  said?  Nell,  are 
you  keeping  things  from  me?" 

"My  dear,  I  never  get  any  encouragement  to  tell  you 
my  troubles." 

"But  I've — I've  nursed  uncle — sat  up  with  him — just 
the  same  as  you,"  said  Bo,  with  quivering  lips. 
"Yes,  you've  been  good  to  him." 
"We've  no  other  troubles,  have  we,  Nell?" 
"You  haven't,  but  I  have/'  responded  Helen,  reproach- 
fully. 

"Why — why  didn't  you  tell  me?"  cried  Bo,  passionately. 
"What  are  they?  Tell  me  now.  You  must  think  me  a — a 
selfish,  hateful  cat." 

"Bo,  I've  had  much  to  worry  me — and  the  worst  is  yet 
to  come,"  replied  Helen.  Then  she  told  Bo  how  com- 
plicated and  bewildering  was  the  management  of  a  big 
ranch — when  the  owner  was  ill,  test}7,  defective  in  mem- 
ory, and  hard  as  steel — when  he  had  hoards  of  gold  and 
notes,  but  could  not  or  would  not  remember  his  obliga- 
tions— when  the  neighbor  ranchers  had  just  claims — when 
cowboys  and  sheep-herders  were  discontented,  and 
wrangled  among  themselves — when  great  herds  of  cattle 
and  flocks  of  sheep  had  to  be  fed  in  winter — when  supplies 
had  to  be  continually  freighted  across  a  muddy  desert — 
and  lastly,  when  an  enemy  rancher  was  slowly  winning 
away  the  best  hands  with  the  end  in  view  of  deliberately 
taking  over  the  property  when  the  owner  died.  Then 
Helen  told  how  she  had  only  that  day  realized  the  extent 
of  Carmichael's  advice  and  help  and  labor — how,  indeed, 
he  had  been  a  brother  to  her — how — 

But  at  this  juncture  Bo  buried  her  face  in  Helen's 
breast  and  began  to  cry  wildly. 

"I — I — don't  want — to  hear — any  more,"  she  sobbed. 

224 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

''Well,  you've  got  to  hear  it,"  replied  Helen,  inexorably, 
*'I  want  you  to  know  how  he's  stood  by  me." 

"But  I  hate  him." 

"Bo,  I  suspect  that's  not  true." 

"I  do— I  do." 

"Well,  you  act  and  talk  very  strangely  then." 

"Nell  Rayner — are — you — you  sticking  up  for  that— - 
that  devil?" 

"I  am,  yes,  so  far  as  it  concerns  my  conscience,"  rejoined 
Helen,  earnestly.  "I  never  appreciated  him  as  he  de- 
served— not  until  now.  He's  a  man,  Bo,  every  inch  of 
him.  I've  seen  him  grow  up  to  that  in  three  months.  I'd 
never  have  gotten  along  without  him.  I  think  he's  fine, 
manly,  big.  I — " 

"I'll  bet — he's  made  love — to  you,  too,"  replied  Bo, 
woefully. 

"Talk  sense,"  said  Helen,  sharply.  "He  has  been  a 
brother  to  me.  But,  Bo  Rayner,  if  he  had  made  love  to 
me  I — I  might  have  appreciated  it  more  than  you." 

Bo  raised  her  face,  flushed  in  part  and  also  pale,  with 
tear-wet  cheeks  and  the  telltale  blaze  in  the  blue  eyes. 

"I've  been  wild  about  that  fellow.  But  I  hate  him, 
too,"  she  said,  with  flashing  spirit.  "And  I  want  to  go 
on  hating  him.  So  don't  tell  me  any  more." 

Whereupon  Helen  briefly  and  graphically  related  how 
Carmichael  had  offered  to  kill  Beasley,  as  the  only  way 
to  save  her  property,  and  how,  when  she  refused,  that  he 
threatened  he  would  do  it  anyhow. 

Bo  fell  over  with  a  gasp  and  clung  to  Helen. 

"Oh — Nell!  Oh,  now  I  love  him  more  than — ever," 
she  cried,  in  mingled  rage  and  despair. 

Helen  clasped  her  closely  and  tried  to  comfort  her  as  in 
the  old  days,  not  so  very  far  back,  when  troubles  were 
not  so  serious  as  now. 

"Of  course  you  love  him,"  she  concluded.  "I  guessed 
that  long  .*»go.  And  I'm  glad.  But  you've  been  wilful — 
foolish.  You  wouldn't  surrender  to  it.  You  wanted  your 

225 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

fling  with  the  other  boys.     You're —    Oh,  Bo,  I  fear  you 
have  been  a  sad  little  flirt." 

"I — I  wasn't  very  bad  till — till  he  got  bossy.  Why, 
Nell,  he  acted — right  off — just  as  if  he  owned  me.  But  he 
didn't.  .  .  .  And  to  show  him — I — I  really  did  flirt  with 
that  Turner  fellow.  Then  he — he  insulted  me.  .  .  .  Oh,  I 
hate  him!" 

"  Nonsense,  Bo.  You  can't  hate  any  one  while  you  love 
him,"  protested  Helen. 

"Much  you  know  about  that,"  flashed  Bo.  "You  just 
can!  Look  here.  Did  you  ever  see  a  cowboy  rope  and 
throw  and  tie  up  a  mean  horse? " 

"Yes,  I  have." 

"  Do  you  have  any  idea  how  strong  a  cowboy  is — how 
*iis  hands  and  arms  are  like  iron?" 

"Yes,  I'm  sure  I  know  that,  too." 

"And  how  savage  he  is?" 

"Yes." 

"And  how  he  goes  at  anything  he  wants  to  do?" 

"I  must  admit  cowboys  are  abrupt,"  responded  Helen, 
with  a  smile. 

"Well,  Miss  Rayner,  did  you  ever — when  you  were 
standing  quiet  like  a  lady — did  you  ever  have  a  cowboy 
dive  at  you  with  a  terrible  lunge — grab  you  and  hold  you 
so  you  couldn't  move  or  breathe  or  scream — hug  you  till 
all  your  bones  cracked — and  kiss  you  so  fierce  and  so  hard 
that  you  wanted  to  kill  him  and  die? " 

Helen  had  gradually  drawn  back  from  this  blazing- 
eyed,  eloquent  sister,  and  when  the  end  of  that  remark- 
able question  came  it  was  impossible  to  reply. 

"There!  I  see  you  never  had  that  done  to  you," 
resumed  Bo,  with  satisfaction.  "So  don't  ever  talk 
to  me." 

"I've  heard  his  side  of  the  story,"  said  Helen,  con- 
strainedly. 

With  a  start  Bo  sat  up  straighter,  as  if  better  to  defend 
herself. 

226 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Oh!  So  you  have?  And  I  suppose  you'll  take  his 
part — even  about  that — that  bearish  trick." 

"No.  I  think  that  rude  and  bold.  But,  Bo,  I  don't 
believe  he  meant  to  be  either  rude  or  bold.  From  what  he 
confessed  to  me  I  gather  that  he  believed  he'd  lose  you 
outright  or  win  you  outright  by  that  violence.  It  seems 
girls  can't  play  at  love  out  here  in  this  wild  West.  He 
said  there  would  be  blood  shed  over  you.  I  begin  to 
realize  what  he  meant.  He's  not  sorry  for  what  he  did. 
Think  how  strange  that  is.  For  he  has  the  instincts  of  a 
gentleman.  He's  kind,  gentle,  chivalrous.  Evidently  he 
had  tried  every  way  to  win  your  favor  except  any  familiar 
advance.  He  did  that  as  a  last  resort.  In  my  opinion 
his  motives  were  to  force  you  to  accept  or  refuse  him,  and 
in  case  you  refused  him  he'd  always  have  those  forbidden 
stolen  kisses  to  assuage  his  self-respect — when  he  thought 
of  Turner  or  any  one  else  daring  to  be  familiar  with  you. 
Bo,  I  see  through  Carmichael,  even  if  I  don't  make  him 
clear  to  you.  You've  got  to  be  honest  with  yourself. 
Did  that  act  of  his  win  or  lose  you?  In  other  words,  do 
you  love  him  or  not?" 

Bo  hid  her  face. 

"Oh,  Nell!  it  made  me  see  how  I  loved  him — and  that 
made  me  so — so  sick  I  hated  him.  .  .  .  But  now — the  hate 
is  all  gone." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

WHEN  spring  came  at  last  and  the  willows  drooped 
green  and  fresh  over  the  brook  and  the  range 
rang  with  bray  of  burro  and  whistle  of  stallion,  old  Al 
Auchincloss  had  been  a  month  in  his  grave. 

To  Helen  it  seemed  longer.  The  month  had  been 
crowded  with  work,  events,  and  growing,  more  hopeful 
duties,  so  that  it  contained  a  world  of  living.  The  uncle 
had  not  been  forgotten,  but  the  innumerable  restrictions 
to  development  and  progress  were  no  longer  manifest. 
Beasley  had  not  presented  himself  or  any  claim  upon 
Helen;  and  she,  gathering  confidence  day  by  day,  began 
to  believe  all  that  purport  of  trouble  had  been  exaggerated. 

In  this  time  she  had  come  to  love  her  work  and  all  that 
pertained  to  it.  The  estate  was  large.  She  had  no  ac- 
curate knowledge  of  how  many  acres  she  owned,  but  it 
was  more  than  two  thousand.  The  fine,  old,  rambling 
ranch-house,  set  like  a  fort  on  the  last  of  the  foot-hills, 
corrals  and  fields  and  barns  and  meadows,  and  the  rolling 
green  range  beyond,  and  innumerable  sheep,  horses,  cattle 
—all  these  belonged  to  Helen,  to  her  ever-wondering 
realization  and  ever-growing  joy.  Still,  she  was  afraid 
to  let  herseff  go  and  be  perfectly  happy.  Always  there 
Was  the  fear  that  had  been  too  deep  and  strong  to  forget 
so  soon. 

This  bright,  fresh  morning,  in  March,  Helen  came  out 
upon  the  porch  to  revel  a  little  in  the  warmth  of  sunshine 
and  the  crisp,  pine-scented  wind  that  swept  down  from 
the  mountains.  There  was  never  a  morning  that  she  did 
not  gaze  mountainward,  trying  to  see,  with  a  folly  she 
*ealized,  if  the  snow  had  melted  more  perceptibly  away 

228 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

on  the  bold  white  ridge.  For  all  she  could  see  it  had  not 
melted  an  inch,  and  she  would  not  confess  why  she  sighed. 
The  desert  had  become  green  and  fresh,  stretching  away 
there  far  below  her  range,  growing  dark  and  purple  in 
the  distance  with  vague  buttes  rising.  The  air  was  full 
of  sound — notes  of  blackbirds  and  the  baas  of  sheep,  and 
blasts  from  the  corrals,  and  the  clatter  of  light  hoofs  on 
the  court  below. 

Bo  was  riding  in  from  the  stables.  Helen  loved  to 
watch  her  on  one  of  those  fiery  little  mustangs,  but  the 
sight  was  likewise  given  to  rousing  apprehensions.  This 
morning  Bo  appeared  particularly  bent  on  frightening 
Helen.  Down  the  lane  Carmichael  appeared,  waving  his 
arms,  and  Helen  at  once  connected  him  with  Bo's  mani- 
fest desire  to  fly  away  from  that  particular  place.  Since 
that  day,  a  month  back,  when  Bo  had  confessed  her  love 
for  Carmichael,  she  and  Helen  had  not  spoken  of  it  or  of 
the  cowboy.  The  boy  and  girl  were  still  at  odds.  But 
this  did  not  worry  Helen.  Bo  had  changed  much  for  the 
better,  especially  in  that  she  devoted  herself  to  Helen  and 
to  her  work.  Helen  knew  that  all  would  turn  out  well 
in  the  end,  and  so  she  had  been  careful  of  her  rather  pre- 
carious position  between  these  two  young  firebrands. 

Bo  reined  in  the  mustang  at  the  porch  steps.  She  wore 
a  buckskin  riding-suit  which  she  had  made  herself,  and 
its  soft  gray  with  the  touches  of  red  beads  was  mightily 
becoming  to  her.  Then  she  had  grown  considerably  during 
the  winter  and  now  looked  too  flashing  and  pretty  to  re- 
semble a  boy,  yet  singularly  healthy  and  strong  and  lithe. 
Red  spots  shone  in  her  cheeks  and  her  eyes  held  that 
ever-dangerous  blaze. 

"Nell,  did  you  give  me  away  to  that  cowboy?"  she 
demanded. 

"Give  you  away!"  exclaimed  Helen,  blankly. 

"Yes.  You  know  I  told  you — awhile  back — that  I 
was  wildly  in  low  with  him.  Did  you  give  me  away — 
tell  on  me?" 

229 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

She  might  have  been  furious,  but  she  certainly  was  not 
confused. 

"Why,  Bo!  How  could  you?  No.  I  did  not,"  re- 
plied Helen. 

"Never  gave  him  a  hint?" 

"  Not  even  a  hint.  You  have  my  word  for  that.  Why? 
What's  happened?" 

"He  makes  me  sick." 

Bo  would  not  say  any  more,  owing  to  the  near  approach 
of  the  cowboy. 

"Mawnin',  Miss  Nell,"  he  drawled.  "I  was  just  tellin' 
this  here  Miss  Bo-Peep  Rayner — " 

"Don't  call  me  that!"  broke  in  Bo,  with  fire  in  her 
voice. 

"Wai,  I  was  just  tellin'  her  thet  she  wasn't  goin'  off  on 
any  more  of  them  long  rides.  Honest  now,  Miss  Nell,  it 
ain't  safe,  an' — " 

"You're  not  my  boss,"  retorted  Bo. 

"Indeed,  sister,  I  agree  with  him.  You  won't  obey 
me." 

"Reckon  some  one's  got  to  be  your  boss,"  drawled 
Carmichael.  "Shore  I  ain't  hankerin'  for  the  job.  You 
could  ride  to  Kingdom  Come  or  off  among  the  Apaches — • 
or  over  here  a  ways" — at  this  he  grinned  knowingly — "oi 
anywheres,  for  all  I  cared.  But  I'm  workin'  for  Miss 
Nell,  an'  she's  boss.  An'  if  she  says  you're  not  to  take 
them  rides — you  won't.  Savvy  that,  miss?" 

It  was  a  treat  for  Helen  to  see  Bo  look  at  the  cowboy. 

"Mis-ter  Carmichael,  may  I  ask  how  you  are  going  to 
prevent  me  from  riding  where  I  like? " 

"Wai,  if  you're  goin'  worse  locoed  this  way  I'll  keep 
you  off'n  a  hoss  if  I  have  to  rope  you  an'  tie  you  up.  By 
golly,  I  will!" 

His  dry  humor  was  gone  and  manifestly  he  meant  what 
he  said. 

"Wai,"  she  drawled  it  very  softly  and  sweetly,  but 
venomously,  "if — you — ever — touch — me  again!" 

230 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

At  this  he  flushed,  then  made  a  quick,  passionate  ges- 
ture with  his  hand,  expressive  of  heat  and  shame. 

"You  an'  me  will  never  get  along,"  he  said,  with  a  dig- 
nity full  of  pathos.  "I  seen  thet  a  month  back  when  you 
changed  sudden-like  to  me.  But  nothin'  I  say  to  you  has 
any  reckonin'  of  mine.  I'm  talkin'  for  your  sister.  It's 
for  her  sake.  An'  your  own.  ...  I  never  told  her  an'  I 
never  told  you  thet  I've  seen  Riggs  sneakin'  after  you 
twice  on  them  desert  rides.  Wai,  I  tell  you  now." 

The  intelligence  apparently  had  not  the  slightest  effect 
on  Bo.  But  Helen  was  astonished  and  alarmed. 

"Riggs!  Oh,  Bo,  I've  seen  him  myself — riding  around. 
He  does  not  mean  well.  You  must  be  careful." 

"If  I  ketch  him  again,"  went  on  Carmichael,  with  his 
mouth  lining  hard,  "I'm  goin'  after  him." 

He  gave  her  a  cool,  intent,  piercing  look,  then  he  dropped 
his  head  and  turned  away,  to  stride  back  toward  the  corrals. 

Helen  could  make  little  of  the  manner  in  which  her 
sister  watched  the  cowboy  pass  out  of  sight. 

"A  month  back — when  I  changed  sudden-like,"  mused 
Bo.  "I  wonder  what  he  meant  by  that.  .  .  .  Nell,  did 
I  change — right  after  the  talk  you  had  with  me — about 
him?" 

"Indeed  you  did,  Bo,"  replied  Helen.  "But  it  was  for 
the  better.  Only  he  can't  see  it.  How  proud  and  sensitive 
he  is!  You  wouldn't  guess  it  at  first.  Bo,  your  reserve  has 
wounded  him  more  than  your  flirting.  He  thinks  it's  in- 
difference." 

"  Maybe  that  '11  be  good  for  him,"  declared  Bo.  "  Does 
he  expect  me  to  fall  on  his  neck  ?  He's  that  thick-headed  I 
Why,  he's  the  locoed  one,  not  me." 

"I'd  like  to  ask  you,  Bo,  if  you've  seen  how  he  has 
changed?"  queried  Helen,  earnestly.  "He's  older.  He's 
worried.  Either  his  heart  is  breaking  for  you  or  else  he 
fears  trouble  for  us.  I  fear  it's  both.  How  he  watches 
you!  Bo,  he  knows  all  you  do — where  you  go.  That  about 
Riggs  sickens  me." 

231 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"If  Riggs  follows  me  and  tries  any  of  his  four-flush 
desperado  games  he'll  have  his  hands  full,"  said  Bo, 
grimly.  "And  that  without  my  cowboy  protector!  But 
I  just  wish  Riggs  would  do  something.  Then  we'll  see  what 
Las  Vegas  Tom  Carmichael  cares.  Then  we'll  see!" 

Bo  bit  out  the  last  words  passionately  and  jealously, 
then  she  lifted  her  bridle  to  the  spirited  mustang. 

"Nell,  don't  you  fear  for  me,"  she  said.  "I  can  take 
care  of  myself." 

Helen  watched  her  ride  away,  all  but  willing  to  confess 
that  there  might  be  truth  in  what  Bo  said.  Then  Helen 
went  about  her  work,  which  consisted  of  routine  duties  as 
well  as  an  earnest  study  to  familiarize  herself  with  con- 
tinually new  and  complex  conditions  of  ranch  life.  Every 
day  brought  new  problems.  She  made  notes  of  all  that 
she  observed,  and  all  that  was  told  her,  which  habit  she 
had  found,  after  a  few  weeks  of  trial,  was  going  to  be  ex- 
ceedingly valuable  to  her.  She  did  not  intend  always  to  be 
dependent  upon  the  knowledge  of  hired  men,  however 
faithful  some  of  them  might  be. 

This  morning  on  her  rounds  she  had  expected  develop- 
ments of  some  kind,  owing  to  the  presence  of  Roy  Beeman 
and  two  of  his  brothers,  who  had  arrived  yesterday.  And 
she  was  to  discover  that  Jeff  Mulvey,  accompanied  by  six 
of  his  co-workers  and  associates,  had  deserted  her  without 
a  word  or  even  sending  for  their  pay.  Carmichael  had 
predicted  this.  Helen  had  half  doubted.  It  was  a  relief 
now  to  be  confronted  with  facts,  however  disturbing.  She 
had  fortified  herself  to  withstand  a  great  deal  more  trouble 
than  had  happened.  At  the  gateway  of  the  main  corral, 
a  huge  inclosure  fenced  high  with  peeled  logs,  she  met 
Roy  Beeman,  lasso  in  hand,  the  same  tall,  lean,  limping 
figure  she  remembered  so  well.  Sight  of  him  gave  her  an 
inexplicable  thrill — a  flashing  memory  of  an  unforgetable 
night  ride.  Roy  was  to  have  charge  of  the  horses  on  the 
ranch,  of  which  there  were  several  hundred,  not  counting 
many  lost  on  range  and  mountain,  or  the  unbranded  colts. 

232 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

Roy  took  off  his  sombrero  and  greeted  her.  This  Moiv 
mon  had  a  courtesy  for  women  that  spoke  well  for  him, 
Helen  wished  she  had  more  employees  like  him. 

"It's  jest  as  Las  Vegas  told  us  it  'd  be,"  he  said,  regret- 
fully. "Mulvey  an'  his  pards  lit  out  this  mornin'.  I'm 
sorry,  Miss  Helen.  Reckon  thet's  all  because  I  come  over." 

"I  heard  the  news,"  replied  Helen.  "You  needn't  be 
sorry,  Roy,  for  I'm  not.  I'm  glad.  I  want  to  know  whom 
I  can  trust." 

"Las  Vegas  says  we're  shore  in  for  it  now." 

"Roy,  what  do  you  think?" 

"I  reckon  so.  Still,  Las  Vegas  is  powerful  cross  these 
days  an'  always  lookin'  on  the  dark  side.  With  us  boys, 
now,  it's  sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof.  But, 
Miss  Helen,  if  Beasley  forces  the  deal  there  will  be  serious 
trouble.  I've  seen  thet  happen.  Four  or  five  years  ago 
Beasley  rode  some  greasers  off  their  farms  an'  no  one  ever 
knowed  if  he  had  a  just  claim." 

"Beasley  has  no  claim  on  my  property.  My  uncle 
solemnly  swore  that  on  his  death-bed.  And  I  find  nothing 
in  his  books  or  papers  of  those  years  when  he  employed 
Beasley.  In  fact,  Beasley  was  never  uncle's  partner.  The 
truth  is  that  my  uncle  took  Beasley  up  when  he  was  a 
poor,  homeless  boy." 

"So  my  old  dad  says,"  replied  Roy.  "But  what's  right 
don't  always  prevail  in  these  parts." 

"Roy,  you're  the  keenest  man  I've  met  since  I  came 
West.  Tell  me  what  you  think  will  happen." 

Beeman  appeared  flattered,  but  he  hesitated  to  reply. 
Helen  had  long  been  aware  of  the  reticence  of  these  outdoor 
men. 

"  I  reckon  you  mean  cause  an*  effect,  as  Milt  Dale  would 
say,"  responded  Roy,  thoughtfully. 

"Yes.  If  Beasley  attempts  to  force  me  off  my  ranch 
what  will  happen?" 

Roy  looked  up  and  met  her  gaze.    Helen  remembered 
that  singular  stillness,  intentness  of  his  face. 
16  233 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Wai,  if  Dale  an'  John  get  here  in  time  I  reckon  we  can 
bluff  thet  Beasley  outfit." 

"You  mean  my  friends  —  my  men  would  confront 
Beasley — refuse  his  demands — and  if  necessary  fight 
him  off?" 

"I  shore  do,"  replied  Roy. 

"But  suppose  you're  not  all  here?  Beasley  would  be 
smart  enough  to  choose  an  opportune  time.  Suppose  he 
did  put  me  off  and  take  possession?  What  then?" 

"Then  it  'd  only  be  a  matter  of  how  soon  Dale  or  Car- 
michael — or  I — got  to  Beasley." 

"Roy!  I  feared  just  that.  It  haunts  me.  Carmichael 
asked  me  to  let  him  go  pick  a  fight  with  Beasley.  Asked 
me,  just  as  he  would  ask  me  about  his  work !  I  was  shocked. 
And  now  you  say  Dale — and  you — " 

Helen  choked  in  her  agitation. 

"Miss  Helen,  what  else  could  you  look  for?  Las  Vegas 
is  in  love  with  Miss  Bo.  Shore  he  told  me  so.  An' 
Dale's  in  love  with  you !  .  .  .  Why,  you  couldn't  stop  them 
any  more  'n  you  could  stop  the  wind  from  blowin'  down 
a  pine,  when  it  got  ready.  .  .  .  Now,  it's  some  different  with 
me.  I'm  a  Mormon  an'  I'm  married.  But  I'm  Dale's 
pard,  these  many  years.  An'  I  care  a  powerful  sight  for 
you  an'  Miss  Bo.  So  I  reckon  I'd  draw  on  Beasley  th« 
first  chance  I  got." 

Helen  strove  for  utterance,  but  it  was  denied  her. 
Roy's  simple  statement  of  Dale's  love  had  magnified  her 
emotion  by  completely  changing  its  direction.  She  for- 
got what  she  had  felt  wretched  about.  She  could  not 
look  at  Roy. 

"Miss  Helen,  don't  feel  bad,"  he  said,  kindly.  "Shore 
you're  not  to  blame.  Your  comin'  West  hasn't  made 
any  difference  in  Beasley's  fate,  except  mebbe  to  hurry 
it  a  little.  My  dad  is  old,  an'  when  he  talks  it's  like 
history.  He  looks  back  on  happenin's.  Wai,  it's  the 
nature  of  happenin's  that  Beasley  passes  away  before  his 
prime.  Them  of  his  breed  don't  live  old  in  the  West.  .  .  . 

234 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

So  I  reckon  you  needn't  feel  bad  or  worry.  You've  got 
friends." 

Helen  incoherently  thanked  him,  and,  forgetting  her 
usual  round  of  corrals  and  stables,  she  hurried  back  toward 
the  house,  deeply  stirred,  throbbing  and  dim-eyed,  with  a 
feeling  she  could  not  control.  Roy  Beeman  had  made  a 
statement  that  had  upset  her  equilibrium.  It  seemed 
simple  and  natural,  yet  momentous  and  staggering.  To 
hear  that  Dale  loved  her — to  hear  it  spoken  frankly, 
earnestly,  by  Dale's  best  friend,  was  strange,  sweet,  ter- 
rifying. But  was  it  true?  Her  own  consciousness  had 
admitted  it.  Yet  that  was  vastly  different  from  a  man's 
open  statement.  No  longer  was  it  a  dear  dream,  a  secret 
that  seemed  hers  alone.  How  she  had  lived  on  that 
secret  hidden  deep  in  her  breast! 

Something  burned  the  dimness  from  her  eyes  as  she 
looked  toward  the  mountains  and  her  sight  became  clear, 
telescopic  with  its  intensity.  Magnificently  the  moun- 
tains loomed.  Black  inroads  and  patches  on  the  slopes 
showed  where  a  few  days  back  all  had  been  white.  The 
snow  was  melting  fast.  Dale  would  soon  be  free  to  ride 
down  to  Pine.  And  that  was  an  event  Helen  prayed  for, 
yet  feared  as  she  had  never  feared  anything. 

The  noonday  dinner-bell  startled  Helen  from  a  reverie 
that  was  a  pleasant  aftermath  of  her  unrestraint.  How 
the  hours  had  flown!  This  morning  at  least  must  be 
credited  to  indolence. 

Bo  was  not  in  the  dining-room,  nor  in  her  own  room, 
nor  was  she  in  sight  from  window  or  door.  This  absence 
had  occurred  before,  but  not  particularly  to  disturb  Helen. 
In  this  instance,  however,  she  grew  worried.  Her  nerves 
presaged  strain.  There  was  an  overcharge  of  sensibility 
in  her  feelings  or  a  strange  pressure  in  the  very  atmosphere. 
She  ate  dinner  alone,  looking  her  apprehension,  which  was 
not  mitigated  by  the  expressive  fears  of  old  Maria,  the 
Mexican  woman  who  served  her. 

235 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

After  dinner  she  sent  word  to  Roy  and  Carmichael  that 
they  had  better  ride  out  to  look  for  Bo.  Then  Helen 
applied  herself  resolutely  to  her  books  until  a  rapid  clatter 
of  hoofs  out  in  the  court  caused  her  to  jump  up  and  hurry 
to  the  porch.  Roy  was  riding  in. 

"Did  you  find  her?"  queried  Helen,  hurriedly. 

"Wasn't  no  track  or  sign  of  her  up  the  north  range," 
replied  Roy,  as  he  dismounted  and  threw  his  bridle.  "An* 
I  was  ridin'  back  to  take  up  her  tracks  from  the  corral  an* 
trail  her.  But  I  seen  Las  Vegas  comin'  an'  he  waved  his 
sombrero.  He  was  comin'  up  from  the  south.  There  he 
is  now." 

Carmichael  appeared  swinging  into  the  lane.  He  was 
mounted  on  Helen's  big  black  Ranger,  and  he  made  the 
dust  fly. 

"Wai,  he's  seen  her,  thet's  shore,"  vouchsafed  Roy, 
with  relief,  as  Carmichael  rode  up. 

"Miss  Nell,  she's  comin',"  said  the  cowboy,  as  he  reined 
in  and  slid  down  with  his  graceful  single  motion.  Then 
in  a  violent  action,  characteristic  of  him,  he  slammed  his 
sombrero  down  on  the  porch  and  threw  up  both  arms. 
"I've  a  hunch  it's  come  off!" 

"Oh,  what?"  exclaimed  Helen. 

"Now,  Las  Vegas,  talk  sense,"  expostulated  Roy. 
"Miss  Helen  is  shore  nervous  to-day.  Has  anythin* 
happened?" 

"I  reckon,  but  I  don't  know  what,"  replied  Carmichael, 
drawing  a  long  breath.  "Folks,  I  must  be  gettin'  old. 
For  I  shore  felt  orful  queer  till  I  seen  Bo.  She  was  ridin' 
down  the  ridge  across  the  valley.  Ridin'  some  fast,  too, 
an'  she'll  be  here  right  off,  if  she  doesn't  stop  in  the  village." 

"Wai,  I  hear  her  comin'  now,"  said  Roy.  "An' — if 
you  asked  me  I'd  say  she  was  ridin'  some  fast." 

Helen  heard  the  light,  swift,  rhythmic  beat  of  hoofs, 
and  then  out  on  the  curve  of  the  road  that  led  down  to 
Pine  she  saw  Bo's  mustang,  white  with  lather,  coming  on 
a  dead  run. 

236 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Las  Vegas,  do  you  see  any  Apaches?"  asked  Roy/ 
quizzingly. 

The  cowboy  made  no  reply,  but  he  strode  out  from  the 
porch,  directly  in  front  of  the  mustang.  Bo  was  pulling 
hard  on  the  bridle,  and  had  him  slowing  down,  but  not 
controlled.  When  he  reached  the  house  it  could  easily  be 
seen  that  Bo  had  pulled  him  to  the  limit  of  her  strength, 
which  was  not  enough  to  halt  him.  Carmichael  lunged 
for  the  bridle  and,  seizing  it,  hauled  him  to  a  standstill. 

At  close  sight  of  Bo  Helen  uttered  a  startled  cry.  Bo 
was  white;  her  sombrero  was  gone  and  her  hair  undone; 
there  were  blood  and  dirt  on  her  face,  and  her  riding-suit 
was  torn  and  muddy.  She  had  evidently  sustained  a  fall. 
Roy  gazed  at  her  in  admiring  consternation,  but  Car- 
michael never  looked  at  her  at  all.  Apparently  he  was 
examining  the  horse.  "Well,  help  me  off — somebody, ** 
cried  Bo,  peremptorily.  Her  voice  was  weak,  but  not  net- 
spirit. 

Roy  sprang  to  help  her  off,  and  when  she  was  down  it 
developed  that  she  was  lame. 

"Oh,  Bo!  You've  had  a  tumble,"  exclaimed  Helen, 
anxiously,  and  she  ran  to  assist  Roy.  They  led  her  up 
the  porch  and  to  the  door.  There  she  turned  to  look  at 
Carmichael,  who  was  still  examining  the  spent  mustang. 

"Tell  him — to  come  in,"  she  whispered. 

"  Hey,  there,  Las  Vegas !"  called  Roy.  "  Rustle  hyar,  will 
you?" 

WTien  Bo  had  been  led  into  the  sitting-room  and  seated 
in  a  chair  Carmichael  entered.  His  face  was  a  study,  as 
slowly  he  walked  up  to  Bo. 

"Girl,  you — ain't  hurt?"  he  asked,  huskily. 

"It's  no  fault  of  yours  that  I'm  not  crippled — or  dead — 
or  worse,"  retorted  Bo.  "You  said  the  south  range  was 
the  only  safe  ride  for  me.  And  there — I — it  happened." 

She  panted  a  little  and  her  bosom  heaved.  One  of  her 
gauntlets  was  gone,  and  the  bare  hand,  that  was  bruised 
and  bloody,  trembled  as  she  held  it  out. 

237 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Dear,  tell  us — are  you  badly  hurt?"  queried  Helen; 
with  hurried  gentleness. 

"Not  much.  I've  had  a  spill,"  replied  Bo.  "But  oh! 
I'm  mad — I'm  boiling!" 

She  looked  as  if  she  might  have  exaggerated  her 
doubt  of  injuries,  but  certainly  she  had  not  over- 
estimated her  state  of  mind.  Any  blaze  Helen  had 
heretofore  seen  in  those  quick  eyes  was  tame  compared 
to  this  one.  It  actually  leaped.  Bo  was  more  than 
pretty  then.  Manifestly  Roy  was  admiring  her  looks, 
but  Carmichael  saw  beyond  her  charm.  And  slowly  he 
was  growing  pale. 

"I  rode  out  the  south  range — as  I  was  told,"  began  Bo, 
breathing  hard  and  trying  to  control  her  feelings.  "That's 
the  ride  you  usually  take,  Nell,  and  you  bet — if  you'd 
taken  it  to-day — you'd  not  be  here  now.  .  .  .  About 
three  miles  out  I  climbed  off  the  range  up  that  cedar  slope. 
I  always  keep  to  high  ground.  When  I  got  up  I  saw  two 
horsemen  ride  out  of  some  broken  rocks  of*  tc  the  east. 
They  rode  as  if  to  come  between  me  and.  home.  I  didn't 
like  that.  I  circled  south.  About  a  mile  farther  on  I  spied 
another  horseman  and  he  showed  up  directly  in  front  of 
me  and  came  along  slow.  That  I  liked  still  less.  It  might 
have  been  accident,  but  it  looked  to  me  as  if  those  riders 
had  some  intent.  All  I  could  do  was  head  off  to  the  south- 
east and  ride.  You  bet  I  did  ride.  But  I  got  into  rough 
ground  where  I'd  never  been  before.  It  was  slow  going, 
At  last  I  made  the  cedars  and  here  I  cut  loose,  believing 
I  could  circle  ahead  of  those  strange  riders  and  come 
round  through  Pine.  I  had  it  wrong." 

Here  she  hesitated,  perhaps  for  breath,  for  she  had 
spoken  rapidly,  or  perhaps  to  get  better  hold  on  her  sub- 
ject. Not  improbably  the  effect  she  was  creating  on  her 
listeners  began  to  be  significant.  Roy  sat  absorbed,  per- 
fectly motionless,  eyes  keen  as  steel,  his  mouth  open. 
Carmichael  was  gazing  over  Bo's  head,  out  of  the 
window,  and  it  seemed  that  he  must  know  the  rest  of 

238 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

her  narrative.  Helen  knew  that  her  own  wide-eyed  at- 
tention alone  would  have  been  all-compelling  inspiration 
«o  Bo  Rayner. 

"Sure  I  had  it  wrong,"  resumed  Bo.  "Pretty  soon  I 
neard  a  horse  behind.  I  looked  back.  I  saw  a  big  bay 
riding  down  on  me.  Oh,  but  he  was  running!  He  just 
tore  through  the  cedars.  ...  I  was  scared  half  out  of  my 
senses.  But  I  spurred  and  beat  my  mustang.  Then  began 
a  race!  Rough  going — thick  cedars — washes  and  gullies! 
I  had  to  make  him  run — to  keep  my  saddle — to  pick  my 
way.  Oh-h-h !  but  it  was  glorious !  To  race  for  fun — that's 
one  thing;  to  race  for  your  life  is  another!  My  heart  was 
in  my  mouth — choking  me.  I  couldn't  have  yelled.  I  was 
as  cold  as  ice — dizzy  sometimes — blind  others — then  my 
stomach  turned — and  I  couldn't  get  my  breath.  Yet  the 
wild  thrills  I  had!  .  .  .  But  I  stuck  on  and  held  my  own 
for  several  miles — to  the  edge  of  the  cedars.  There  the 
big  horse  gained  on  me.  He  came  pounding  closer — per- 
haps as  close  as  a  hundred  yards — I  could  hear  him  plain 
enough.  Then  I  had  my  spill.  Oh,  my  mustang  tripped — 
threw  me  'way  over  his  head.  I  hit  light,  but  slid  far — 
and  that's  what  scraped  me  so.  I  know  my  knee  is  raw. 
.  .  .  When  I  got  to  my  feet  the  big  horse  dashed  up, 
throwing  gravel  all  over  me — and  his  rider  jumped  off. 
.  .  .  Now  who  do  you  think  he  was?" 

Helen  knew,  but  she  did  not  voice  her  conviction. 
Carmichael  knew  positively,  yet  he  kept  silent.  Roy  was 
smiling,  as  if  the  narrative  told  did  not  seem  so  alarming 
to  him. 

"Wai,  the  fact  of  you  bein'  here,  safe  an'  sound,  sorta 
makes  no  difference  who  thet  son-of-a-gun  was,"  he  said. 

"Riggs!     Harve  Riggs!"  blazed  Bo.     "The  instant  I 
recognized  him  I  got  over  my  scare.    And  so  mad  I  burned 
all  through  like  fire.   I  don't  know  what  I  said,  but  it  was 
wild — and  it  was  a  whole  lot,  you  bet. 
"You  sure  can  ride,'  he  said. 

"I  demanded  why  he  had  dared  to  chase  me,  and  he 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Said  he  had  an  important  message  for  Nell.  This  was  its 
*Tell  your  sister  that  Beasley  means  to  put  her  off  an' 
take  the  ranch.  If  she'll  marry  me  I'll  block  his  deal.  If 
she  won't  marry  me,  I'll  go  in  with  Beasley.'  Then  he 
told  me  to  hurry  home  and  not  to  breathe  a  word  to  any 
one  except  Nell.  Well,  here  I  am — and  I  seem  to  have 
been  breathing  rather  fast." 

She  looked  from  Helen  to  Roy  and  from  Roy  to  Las 
Vegas.  Her  smile  was  for  the  latter,  and  to  any  one  not 
overexcited  by  her  story  that  smile  would  have  told 
volumes. 

"Wai,  I'll  be  doggoned!"  ejaculated  Roy,  feelingly. 

Helen  laughed. 

"  Indeed,  the  working  of  that  man's  mind  is  beyond  me. 
ttd  .  Marry  him  to  save  my  ranch?  I  wouldn't  marry  him 
to  save  my  life!" 

Carmichael  sudden1  y  broke  his  silence. 

"Bo,  did  you  see  the  other  men?" 

"Yes.  I  was  coming  to  that,"  she  replied.  "I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  them  back  in  the  cedars.  The  three  were  to- 
gether, or,  at  least,  three  horsemen  were  there.  They  had 
halted  behind  some  trees.  Then  on  the  way  home  I  began 
to  think.  Even  in  my  fury  I  had  received  impressions. 
Riggs  was  surprised  when  I  got  up.  I'll  bet  he  had  not 
expected  me  to  be  who  I  was.  He  thought  I  was  Nell! 
...  I  look  bigger  in  this  buckskin  outfit.  My  hair  was 
up  till  I  lost  my  hat,  and  that  was  when  I  had  the  tumble. 
He  took  me  for  Nell.  Another  thing,  I  remember — he 
made  some  sign — some  motion  while  I  was  calling  him 
names,  and  I  believe  that  was  to  keep  those  other  men 
back.  ...  I  believe  Riggs  had  a  plan  with  those  other 
men  to  waylay  Nell  and  make  off  with  her.  I  absolutely 
know  it." 

"Bo,  you're  so — so — you  jump  at  wild  ideas  so,"  pro- 
tested Helen,  trying  to  believe  in  her  own  assurance.  But 
inwardly  she  was  trembling. 

"  Miss  Helen,  that  ain't  a  wild  idee,"  said  Roy,  seriously, 

240 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

04 1  reckon  your  sister  is  pretty  close  on  the  trail.    Las 

Vegas,  don't  you  savvy  it  thet  way?" 

Carmi  chad's  answer  was  to  stalk  out  of  the  room. 

"Call  him  back!"  cried  Helen,  apprehensively. 

"Hold  on,  boy!"  called  Roy,  sharply. 

Helen  reached  the  door  simultaneously  with  Roy.  The 
cowboy  picked  up  his  sombrero,  jammed  it  on  his  head, 
gave  his  belt  a  vicious  hitch  that  made  the  gun-sheath 
jump,  and  then  in  one  giant  step  he  was  astride  Ranger. 

"Carmichael!    Stay!"  cried  Helen. 

The  cowboy  spurred  the  black,  and  the  stones  rang  un- 
der iron-shod  hoofs. 

"Bo!  Call  him  back!  Please  call  him  back!"  importuned 
Helen,  in  distress. 

"I  won't,"  declared  Bo  Rayner.  Her  face  shone  whiter 
now  and  her  eyes  were  like  fiery  flint.  That  was  her 
answer  to  a  loving,  gentle-hearted  sister;  that  was  her 
answer  to  the  call  of  the  West. 

"No  use,"  said  Roy,  quietly.  "An*  I  reckon  I'd  better 
trail  him  up." 

He,  too,  strode  out  and,  mounting  his  horse,  galloped 
swiftly  away. 

It  turned  out  that  Bo  was  more  bruised  and  scraped 
and  shaken  than  she  had  imagined.  One  knee  was  rather 
badly  cut,  which  injury  alone  would  have  kept  her  from 
riding  again  very  soon.  Helen,  who  was  somewhat  skilled 
at  bandaging  wounds,  worried  a  great  deal  over  these  sun- 
dry blotches  on  Bo's  fair  skin,  and  it  took  considerable  time 
to  wash  and  dress  them.  Long  after  this  was  done,  and 
during  the  early  supper,  and  afterward,  Bo's  excitement 
remained  unabated.  The  whiteness  stayed  on  her  face 
and  the  blaze  in  her  eyes.  Helen  ordered  and  begged  her  to 
go  to  bed,  for  the  fact  was  Bo  could  not  stand  up  and  her 
hands  shook. 

"Go  to  bed?  Not  much/' she  said.  "I  want  to  know 
he  does  to  Riggs." 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

It  was  that  possibility  which  had  Helen  in  dreadful 
suspense.  If  Carmichael  killed  Riggs,  it  seemed  to  Helen 
that  the  bottom  would  drop  out  of  this  structure  of  West- 
ern life  she  had  begun  to  build  so  earnestly  and  fearfully. 
She  did  not  believe  that  he  would  do  so.  But  the  uncer- 
tainty was  torturing. 

"Dear  Bo,"  appealed  Helen,  "you  don't  want —  Oh! 
you  do  want  Carmichael  to — to  kill  Riggs?" 

"No,  I  don't,  but  I  wouldn't  care  if  he  did,"  replied 
Bo,  bluntly. 

"  Do  you  think— he  will?" 

"Nell,  if  that  cowboy  really  loves  me  he  read  my  mind 
right  here  before  he  left,"  declared  Bo.  "And  he  knew 
what  I  thought  he'd  do." 

"And  what's— that?"  faltered  Helen. 

"I  want  him  to  round  Riggs  up  down  in  the  village — 
somewhere  in  a  crowd.  I  want  Riggs  shown  up  as  the  cow- 
ard, braggart,  four-flush  that  he  is.  And  insulted,  slapped, 
kicked — driven  out  of  Pine!" 

Her  passionate  speech  still  rang  throughout  the  room 
when  there  came  footsteps  on  the  porch.  Helen  hurried  to 
raise  the  bar  from  the  door  and  open  it  just  as  a  tap 
sounded  on  the  door-post.  Roy's  face  stood  white  out  of 
the  darkness.  His  eyes  were  bright.  And  his  smile  made 
Helen's  fearful  query  needless. 

"How  are  you-all  this  evenin'?"  he  drawled,  as  he 
came  in. 

A  fire  blazed  on  the  hearth  and  a  lamp  burned  on  the 
table.  By  their  light  Bo  looked  white  and  eager-eyed  as 
she  reclined  in  the  big  arm-chair. 

"What  'd  he  do?"  she  asked,  with  all  her  amazing  force. 

"Wai,  now,  ain't  you  goin'  to  tell  me  how  you  are?" 

"Roy,  I'm  all  bunged  up.    I  ought  to  be  in  bed,  but  I 
'  just  couldn't  sleep  till  I  hear  what  Las  Vegas  did.    I'd 
forgive  anything  except  him  getting  drunk." 

"Wai,  I  shore  can  ease  your  mind  on  thet,"  replied  Roy. 
"He  never  drank  a  drop." 

242 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Roy  was  distractingly  slow  about  beginning  the  tale 
any  child  could  have  guessed  he  was  eager  to  tell.  For 
once  the  hard,  intent  quietness,  the  soul  of  labor,  pain,  and 
endurance  so  plain  in  his  face  was  softened  by  pleasurable 
emotion.  He  poked  at  the  burning  logs  with  the  toe  of  his 
boot.  Helen  observed  that  he  had  changed  his  boots  and 
now  wore  no  spurs.  Then  he  had  gone  to  his  quarters  after 
whatever  had  happened  down  in  Pine. 

"Where  is  he?"  asked  Bo. 

"Who?  Riggs?  Wai,  I  don't  know.  But  I  reckon  he's 
somewhere  out  in  the  woods  nursin'  himself." 

"Not  Riggs.    First  tell  me  where  he  is." 

"Shore,  then,  you  must  mean  Las  Vegas.  I  just  left 
him  down  at  the  cabin.  He  was  gettin'  ready  for  bed, 
early  as  it  is.  All  tired  out  he  was  an'  thet  white  you 
wouldn't  have  knowed  him.  But  he  looked  happy  at  thet, 
an'  the  last  words  he  said,  more  to  himself  than  to  me,  I 
reckon,  was,  'I'm  some  locoed  gent,  but  if  she  doesn't  call 
me  Tom  now  she's  no  good!'" 

Bo  actually  clapped  her  hands,  notwithstanding  that 
one  of  them  was  bandaged. 

"Call  him  Tom?  I  should  smile  I  will,"  she  declared,  in 
delight.  "Hurry  now — what  'd — " 

"It's  shore  powerful  strange  how  he  hates  thet  handle 
Las  Vegas,"  went  on  Roy,  imperturbably. 

"Roy,  tell  me  what  he  did — what  Tom  did — or  I'll 
scream,"  cried  Bo. 

"Miss  Helen,  did  you  ever  see  the  likes  of  thet  girl?" 
asked  Roy,  appealing  to  Helen. 

"No,  Roy,  I  never  did,"  agreed  Helen.  "But  please 
— please  tell  us  what  has  happened." 

Roy  grinned  and  rubbed  his  hands  together  in  a  dark 
delight,  almost  fiendish  in  its  sudden  revelation  of  a  gulf 
of  strange  emotion  deep  within  him.  Whatever  had  hap- 
pened to  Riggs  had  not  been  too  much  for  Roy  Beeman. 
Helen  remembered  hearing  her  uncle  say  that  a  real 
Westerner  hated  nothing  so  hard  as  the  swaggering  des- 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

perado,  the  make-believe  gunman  who  pretended  to  sail 
under  the  true,  wild,  and  reckoning  colors  of  the  West. 

Roy  leaned  his  lithe,  tall  form  against  the  stone  mantel- 
piece and  faced  the  girls. 

"When  I  rode  out  after  Las  Vegas  I  seen  him  'way 
down  the  road,"  began  Roy,  rapidly.  "An'  I  seen  an- 
other man  ridin*  down  into  Pine  from  the  other  side. 
Thet  was  Riggs,  only  I  didn't  know  it  then.  Las  Vegas 
rode  up  to  the  store,  where  some  fellars  was  hangin'  'round, 
an'  he  spoke  to  them.  When  I  come  up  they  was  all 
headin'  for  Turner's  saloon.  I  seen  a  dozen  hosses  hitched 
to  the  rails.  Las  Vegas  rode  on.  But  I  got  off  at  Turner's 
an'  went  in  with  the  bunch.  Whatever  it  was  Las  Vegas 
said  to  them  fellars,  shore  they  didn't  give  him  away. 
Pretty  soon  more  men  strolled  into  Turner's  an'  there  got 
to  be  'most  twenty  altogether,  I  reckon.  Jeff  Mulvey 
was  there  with  his  pards.  They  had  been  drinkin'  sorta 
free.  An'  I  didn't  like  the  way  Mulvey  watched  me.  So 
I  went  out  an*  into  the  store,  but  kept  a-lookin'  for  Las 
Vegas.  He  wasn't  in  sight.  But  I  seen  Riggs  ridin'  up. 
Now,  Turner's  is  where  Riggs  hangs  out  an'  does  his 
braggin'.  He  looked  powerful  deep  an'  thoughtful,  dis- 
mounted slow  without  seem'  the  onusual  number  of  hosses 
there,  an'  then  he  slouches  into  Turner's.  No  more  'n  a 
minute  after  Las  Vegas  rode  down  there  like  a  streak. 
An'  just  as  quick  he  was  off  an'  through  thet  door." 

Roy  paused  as  if  to  gain  force  or  to  choose  his  words. 
His  tale  now  appeared  all  directed  to  Bo,  who  gazed  at 
him,  spellbound,  a  fascinated  listener. 

"Before  I  got  to  Turner's  door — an'  thet  was  only  a 
little  ways — I  heard  Las  Vegas  yell.  Did  you  ever  hear 
him?  Wai,  he's  got  the  wildest  yell  of  any  cow-puncher 
I  ever  heard.  Quicklike  I  opened  the  door  an'  slipped  in. 
There  was  Riggs  an'  Las  Vegas  alone  in  the  center  of  the 
big  saloon,  with  the  crowd  edgin'  to  the  walls  an'  slidin' 
back  of  the  bar.  Riggs  was  whiter  'n  a  dead  man.  I 
didn't  hear  an'  I  don't  know  what  Las  Vegas  yelled  at. 

244 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

him.  But  Riggs  knew  an'  so  did  the  gang.  All  of  a  sud- 
den every  man  there  shore  seen  in  Las  Vegas  what  Riggs 
had  always  bragged  he  was.  Thet  time  comes  to  every 
man  like  Riggs. 

"'What  'd  you  call  me?'  he  asked,  his  jaw  shakin'. 

'"I  'ain't  called  you  yet,'  answered  Las  Vegas.  *  I  just 
whooped.' 

"'What  d'ye  want?* 

"'You  scared  my  girl.' 

" '  The  hell  ye  say !  Who's  she ?  '  blustered  Riggs,  an*  he 
began  to  take  quick  looks  'round.  But  he  never  moved 
a  hand.  There  was  somethin'  tight  about  the  way  he 
stood.  Las  Vegas  had  both  arms  half  out,  stretched  as  if 
he  meant  to  leap.  But  he  wasn't.  I  never  seen  Las 
Vegas  do  thet,  but  when  I  seen  him  then  I  understood  it. 

'"You  know.  An'  you  threatened  her  an'  her  sister. 
Go  for  your  gun,'  called  Las  Vegas,  low  an'  sharp. 

"Thet  put  the  crowd  right  an'  nobody  moved.  Riggs 
turned  green  then.  I  almost  felt  sorry  for  him.  He 
began  to  shake  so  he'd  dropped  a  gun  if  he  had  pulled  one. 

"'Hyar,  you're  off — some  mistake —  I  'ain't  seen  no 
gurls —  I — ' 

"  'Shut  up  an'  draw!'  yelled  Las  Vegas.  His  voice  just 
pierced  holes  in  the  roof,  an'  it  might  have  been  a  bullet 
from  the  way  Riggs  collapsed.  Every  man  seen  in  a 
second  more  thet  Riggs  wouldn't  an'  couldn't  draw.  He 
was  afraid  for  his  life.  He  was  not  what  he  had  claimed 
to  be.  I  don't  know  if  he  had  any  friends  there.  But  in 
the  West  good  men  an'  bad  men,  all  alike,  have  no  use  for 
Riggs's  kind.  An'  thet  stony  quiet  broke  with  haw-haw. 
It  shore  was  as  pitiful  to  see  Riggs  as  it  was  fine  to  see  Las 
Vegas. 

"When  he  dropped  his  arms  then  I  knowed  there  would 
be  no  gun-play.  An'  then  Las  Vegas  got  red  in  the  face. 
He  slapped  Riggs  with  one  hand,  then  with  the  other. 
An'  he  began  to  cuss  him.  I  shore  never  knowed  thet 
nice-spoken  Las  Vegas  Carmichael  could  use  such  Ian- 

245 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

guage.  It  was  a  stream  of  the  baddest  names  known  out 
here,  an'  lots  I  never  heard  of.  Now  an'  then  I  caught 
somethin'  like  low-down  an'  sneak  an'  four-flush  an'  long- 
haired skunk,  but  for  the  most  part  they  was  just  the 
cussedest  kind  of  names.  An*  Las  Vegas  spouted  them 
till  he  was  black  in  the  face,  an'  foamin'  at  the  mouth,  an* 
hoarser  'n  a  bawlin'  cow. 

"When  he  got  out  of  breath  from  cussin'  he  punched 
Riggs  all  about  the  saloon,  threw  him  outdoors,  knocked 
him  down  an'  kicked  him  till  he  got  up,  an'  then  kept 
kickin*  him  down  the  road  with  the  whole  haw-hawin' 
gang  behind.  An'  he  drove  him  out  of  town!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

FOR  two  days  Bo  was  confined  to  her  bed,  suffering 
considerable  pain,  and  subject  to  fever,  during  which 
she  talked  irrationally.     Some  of  this  talk  afforded  Helen 
as  vast  an  amusement  as  she  was  certain  it  would  have 
lifted  Tom  Carmichael  to  a  seventh  heaven. 

The  third  day,  however,  Bo  was  better,  and,  refusing 
to  remain  in  bed,  she  hobbled  to  the  sitting-room,  where 
she  divided  her  time  between  staring  out  of  the  window 
toward  the  corrals  and  pestering  Helen  with  questions  she 
tried  to  make  appear  casual.  But  Helen  saw  through  her 
case  and  was  in  a  state  of  glee.  What  she  hoped  most  for 
was  that  Carmichael  would  suddenly  develop  a  little  less 
inclination  for  Bo.  It  was  that  kind  of  treatment  the 
young  lady  needed.  And  now  was  the  great  oppor- 
tunity. Helen  almost  felt  tempted  to  give  the  cowboy 
a  hint. 

Neither  this  day,  nor  the  next,  however,  did  he  put  in 
an  appearance  at  the  house,  though  Helen  saw  him  twice 
on  her  rounds.  He  was  busy,  as  usual,  and  greeted  her 
as  if  nothing  particular  had  happened. 

Roy  called  twice,  once  in  the  afternoon,  and  again  dur- 
ing the  evening.  He  grew  more  likable  upon  longer  ac- 
quaintance. This  last  visit  he  rendered  Bo  speechless 
by  teasing  her  about  another  girl  Carmichael  was  going 
to  take  to  a  dance.  Bo's  face  showed  that  her  vanity 
could  not  believe  this  statement,  but  that  her  intelligence 
of  young  men  credited  it  with  being  possible.  Roy  evi- 
dently was  as  penetrating  as  he  was  kind.  He  made  a 
dry,  casual  little  remark  about  the  snow  never  melting 

247 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

on  the  mountains  during  the  latter  part  of  March;  and 
the  look  with  which  he  accompanied  this  remark  brought 
a  blush  to  Helen's  cheek. 

After  Roy  had  departed  Bo  said  to  Helen:  "Confound 
that  fellow!  He  sees  right  through  me." 

"My  dear,  you're  rather  transparent  these  days,"  mur- 
mured Helen. 

"You  needn't  talk.  He  gave  you  a  dig,"  retorted  Bo. 
"He  just  knows  you're  dying  to  see  the  snow  melt." 

"Gracious!  I  hope  I'm  not  so  bad  as  that.  Of  course 
I  want  the  snow  melted  and  spring  to  come,  and  flowers — " 

"Ha!  Ha!  Ha!"  taunted  Bo.  "Nell  Rayner,  do  you 
see  any  green  in  my  eyes?  Spring  to  come!  Yes,  the 
poet  said  in  the  spring  a  young  man's  fancy  lightly  turns 
to  thoughts  of  love.  But  that  poet  meant  a  young 
woman." 

Helen  gazed  out  of  the  window  at  the  white  stars. 

"Nell,  have  you  seen  him — since  I  was  hurt?"  con- 
tinued Bo,  with  an  effort. 

"Him?     Who?" 

"Oh,  whom  do  you  suppose?  I  mean  Tom!"  she  re- 
sponded, and  the  last  word  came  with  a  burst. 

"Tom?  Who's  he?  Ah,  you  mean  Las  Vegas.  Yes, 
I've  seen  him." 

"Well,  did  he  ask  a-about  me?" 

"I  believe  he  did  ask  how  you  were — something  like 
that." 

"Humph!  Nell,  I  don't  always  trust  you."  After 
that  she  relapsed  into  silence,  read  awhile,  and  dreamed 
awhile,  looking  into  the  fire,  and  then  she  limped  over  to 
kiss  Helen  good  night  and  left  the  room. 

Next  day  she  was  rather  quiet,  seeming  upon  the  verge 
of  one  of  the  dispirited  spells  she  got  infrequently.  Early 
in  the  evening,  just  after  the  lights  had  been  lit  and  she 
had  joined  Helen  in  the  sitting-room,  a  familiar  step 
sounded  on  the  loose  boards  of  the  porch. 

Helen  went  to  the  door  to  admit  Carmichael.  He  was 

248 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

clean-shaven,  dressed  in  his  dark  suit,  which  presented 
such  marked  contrast  from  his  riding-garb,  and  he  wore 
a  flower  in  his  buttonhole.  Nevertheless,  despite  all  this 
style,  he  seemed  more  than  usually  the  cool,  easy,  careless 
cowboy. 

"Evenin',  Miss  Helen,"  he  said,  as  he  stalked  in. 
"Evenin',  Miss  Bo.  How  are  you-all?" 

Helen  returned  his  greeting  with  a  welcoming  smile. 

"Good  evening — Tom"  said  Bo,  demurely. 

That  assuredly  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  called 
him  Tom.  As  she  spoke  she  looked  distractingly  pretty 
and  tantalizing.  But  if  she  had  calculated  to  floor  Car- 
michael  with  the  initial,  half -promising,  wholly  mock- 
ing use  of  his  name  she  had  reckoned  without  cause.  The 
cowboy  received  that  greeting  as  if  he  had  heard  her  use 
it  a  thousand  times  or  had  not  heard  it  at  all.  Helen 
decided  if  he  was  acting  a  part  he  was  certainly  a  clever 
actor.  He  puzzled  her  somewhat,  but  she  liked  his  look, 
and  his  easy  manner,  and  the  something  about  him  that 
must  have  been  his  unconscious  sense  of  pride.  He  had 
gone  far  enough,  perhaps  too  far,  in  his  overtures  to  Bo. 

"How  are  you  feelin'?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  better  to-day,"  she  replied,  with  downcast  eyes. 
'•But  I'm  lame  yet." 

"Reckon  that  bronc  piled  you  up.  Miss  Helen  said 
there  shore  wasn't  any  joke  about  the  cut  on  your  knee. 
Now,  a  fellar's  knee  is  a  bad  place  to  hurt,  if  he  has  to 
keep  on  ridin'." 

"Oh,  I'll  be  well  soon.  How's  Sam?  I  hope  he  wasn't 
crippled." 

"Thet  Sam — why,  he's  so  tough  he  never  knowed  he 
had  a  fall." 

"Tom — I — I  want  to  thank  you  for  giving  Riggs  what 
he  deserved." 

She  spoke  it  earnestly,  eloquently,  and  for  once  she  had 
no  sly  little  intonation  or  pert  allurement,  such  as  was 
her  wont  to  use  on  this  infatuated  young  mat). 
17  249 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"Aw,  you  heard  about  that,"  replied  Carmichael,  with 
a  wave  of  his  hand  to  make  light  of  it.  "Nothin'  much. 
It  had  to  be  done.  An'  shore  I  was  afraid  of  Roy.  He'd 
been  bad.  An'  so  would  any  of  the  other  boys.  I'm 
sorta  lookin'  out  for  all  of  them,  you  know,  actin'  as  Miss 
Helen's  foreman  now." 

Helen  was  unutterably  tickled.  The  effect  of  his  speech 
upon  Bo  was  stupendous.  He  had  disarmed  her.  He 
had,  with  the  finesse  and  tact  and  suavity  of  a  diplomat, 
removed  himself  from  obligation,  and  the  detachment  of 
self,  the  casual  thing  he  apparently  made  out  of  his  mag- 
nificent championship,  was  bewildering  and  humiliating 
to  Bo.  She  sat  silent  for  a  moment  or  two  while  Helen 
tried  to  fit  easily  into  the  conversation.  It  was  not  likely 
that  Bo  would  long  be  at  a  loss  for  words,  and  also  it  was 
immensely  probable  that  with  a  flash  of  her  wonderful 
spirit  she  would  turn  the  tables  on  her  perverse  lover  in 
a  twinkling.  Anyway,  plain  it  was  that  a  lesson  had  sunk 
deep.  She  looked  startled,  hurt,  wistful,  and  finally 
sweetly  defiant. 

"But — you  told  Riggs  I  was  your  girl!"  Thus  Bo  un- 
masked her  battery.  And  Helen  could  not  imagine  how 
Carmichael  would  ever  resist  that  and  the  soft,  arch  glance 
which  accompanied  it. 

Helen  did  not  yet  know  the  cowboy,  any  more  than 
did  Bo. 

"Shore.  I  had  to  say  thet.  I  had  to  make  it  strong 
before  thet  gang.  I  reckon  it  was  presumin'  of  me,  an* 
I  shore  apologize." 

Bo  stared  at  him,  and  then,  giving  a  little  gasp,  she 
drooped. 

"Wai,  I  just  run  in  to  say  howdy  an'  to  inquire  after 
you-all,"  said  Carmichael.  "I'm  goin'  to  the  dance,  an' 
as  Flo  lives  out  of  town  a  ways  I'd  shore  better  rustle. 
.  .  .  Good  night,  Miss  Bo;  I  hope  you'll  be  ridin'  Sam 
soon.  An'  good  night,  Miss  Helen." 

Bo  roused  to  a  very  friendly  and  laconic  little  speech, 

250 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

much  overdone.  Carmichael  strode  out,  and  Helen,  bid- 
ding him  good-by,  closed  the  door  after  him. 

The  instant  he  had  departed  Bo's  transformation  was 
tragic. 

"Flo!  He  meant  Flo  Stubbs — that  ugly,  cross-eyed, 
bold,  little  frump!" 

"Bo!"  expostulated  Helen.  "The  young  lady  is  not 
beautiful,  I  grant,  but  she's  very  nice  and  pleasant.  I 
liked  her/' 

"Nell  Rayner,  men  are  no  good!  And  cowboys  are  the 
worst!"  declared  Bo,  terribly. 

"Why  didn't  you  appreciate  Tom  when  you  had  him?" 
asked  Helen. 

Bo  had  been  growing  furious,  but  now  the  allusion,  in 
past  tense,  to  the  conquest  she  had  suddenly  and  amaz- 
ingly found  dear  quite  broke  her  spirit.  It  was  a  very  pale, 
unsteady,  and  miserable  girl  who  avoided  Helen's  gaze 
and  left  the  room. 

Next  day  Bo  was  not  approachable  from  any  direction. 
Helen  found  her  a  victim  to  a  multiplicity  of  moods, 
ranging  from  woe  to  dire,  dark  broodings,  from  them  to 
wistfulness,  and  at  last  to  a  pride  that  sustained  her. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  at  Helen's  leisure  hour,  when  she 
and  Bo  were  in  the  sitting-room,  horses  tramped  into  the 
court  and  footsteps  mounted  the  porch.  Opening  to  a 
loud  knock,  Helen  was  surprised  to  see  Beasley.  And  out 
in  the  court  were  several  mounted  horsemen.  Helen's 
heart  sank.  This  visit,  indeed,  had  been  foreshadowed. 

"Afternoon,  Miss  Rayner,"  said  Beasley,  doffing  his 
sombrero.  "  I've  called  on  a  little  business  deal.  Will  you 
see  me?" 

Helen  acknowledged  his  greeting  while  she  thought 
rapidly.  She  might  just  as  well  see  him  and  have  that 
inevitable  interview  done  with. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said,  and  when  he  had  entered  she  closed 
the  door.  "My  sister,  Mr.  Beaslev." 

251 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"How  d'  you  do,  Miss?"  said  the  rancher,  in  bluff,  loud 
voice. 

Bo  acknowledged  the  introduction  with  a  frigid  little 
bow. 

At  close  range  Beasley  seemed  a  forceful  personality  as 
well  as  a  rather  handsome  man  of  perhaps  thirty-five, 
heavy  of  build,  swarthy  of  skin,  and  sloe-black  of  eye,  like 
that  of  the  Mexicans  whose  blood  was  reported  to  be  in 
him.  He  looked  crafty,  confident,  and  self -centered.  If 
Helen  had  never  heard  of  him  before  that  visit  she  would 
have  distrusted  him. 

"I'd  called  sooner,  but  I  was  waitin'  for  old  Jose,  the 
Mexican  who  herded  for  me  when  I  was  pardner  to  your 
uncle,"  said  Beasley,  and  he  sat  down  to  put  his  huge 
gloved  hands  on  his  knees. 

"Yes?"  queried  Helen,  interrogatively. 

"  Jose*  rustled  over  from  Magdalena,  an'  now  I  can  back 
up  my  claim.  .  .  .  Miss  Rayner,  this  hyar  ranch  ought 
to  be  mine  an'  is  mine.  It  wasn't  so  big  or  so  well  stocked 
when  Al  Auchincloss  beat  me  out  of  it.  I  reckon  I'll  allow 
for  thet.  I've  papers,  an*  old  Jos£  for  witness.  An'  I 
calculate  you'll  pay  me  eighty  thousand  dollars,  or  else  I'll 
take  over  the  ranch." 

Beasley  spoke  in  an  ordinary,  matter-of-fact  tone  that 
certainly  seemed  sincere,  and  his  manner  was  blunt,  but 
perfectly  natural. 

"Mr.  Beasley,  your  claim  is  no  news  to  me,"  responded 
Helen,  quietly.  "  I've  heard  about  it.  And  I  questioned  my 
uncle.  He  swore  on  his  death-bed  that  he  did  not  owe  you 
a  dollar.  Indeed,  he  claimed  the  indebtedness  was  yours 
to  him.  I  could  find  nothing  in  his  papers,  so  I  must  repu- 
diate your  claim.  I  will  not  take  it  seriously." 

"Miss  Rayner,  I  can't  blame  you  for  takin'  Al's  word 
against  mine,"  said  Beasley.  "An*  your  stand  is  natural. 
But  you're  a  stranger  here  an'  you  know  nothin'  of  stock 
deals  in  these  ranges.  It  ain't  fair  to  speak  bad  of  the  dead, 
but  the  truth  is  thet  Al  Auchincloss  got  his  start  by  stealii?' 

252 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

sheep  an*  unbranded  cattle.  Thet  was  the  start  of  every 
rancher  I  know.  It  was  mine.  An*  we  none  of  us  ever 
thought  of  it  as  rustlin'." 

Helen  could  only  stare  her  surprise  and  doubt  at  this 
statement. 

"Talk's  cheap  anywhere  an'  in  the  West  talk  ain't 
much  at  all,"  continued  Beasley.  "I'm  no  talker.  I  jest 
want  to  tell  my  case  an'  make  a  deal  if  you'll  have  it.  I 
can  prove  more  in  black  an'  white,  an'  with  witness,  than 
you  can.  Thet's  my  case.  The  deal  I'd  make  is  this.  .  .  . 
Let's  marry  an'  settle  a  bad  deal  thet  way." 

The  man's  direct  assumption,  absolutely  without  a 
qualifying  consideration  for  her  woman's  attitude,  was 
amazing,  ignorant,  and  base;  but  Helen  was  so  well  pre- 
pared for  it  that  she  hid  her  disgust. 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Beasley,  but  I  can't  accept  your 
offer,"  she  replied. 

"Would  you  take  time  an'  consider?"  he  asked,  spread- 
ing wide  his  huge  gloved  hands. 

"nosolutely  no." 

Beasley  rose  to  his  feet.  He  showed  no  disappointment 
or  chagrin,  but  the  bold  pleasantness  left  his  face,  and, 
slight  as  that  change  was,  it  stripped  him  of  the  only  re- 
deeming quality  he  showed. 

"Thet  means  I'll  force  you  to  pay  me  the  eighty  thou- 
sand or  put  you  off,"  he  said. 

"Mr.  Beasley,  even  if  I  owed  you  that,  how  could  I 
raise  so  enormous  a  sum?  I  don't  owe  it.  And  I  certainly 
won't  be  put  off  my  property.  You  can't  put  me  off." 

"An'  why  can't  I?"  he  demanded,  with  lowering,  dark 
gaze. 

"  Because  your  claim  is  dishonest.  And  I  can  prove  it," 
declared  Helen,  forcibly. 

"Who  're  you  goin'  to  prove  it  to — thet  I'm  dishonest?" 

"To  my  men — to  your  men — to  the  people  of  Pine — to 
everybody.  There's  not  a  person  who  won't  believe  me." 

He  seemed  curious,  discomfited,  surlily  annoyed,  and 

253 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

yet  fascinated  by  her  statement  or  else  by  the  quality 
and  appearance  of  her  as  she  spiritedly  defended  hei 
cause. 

"An'  how  're  you  goin'  to  prove  all  thet?"  he  growled. 

"Mr.  Beasley,  do  you  remember  last  fall  when  you 
met  Snake  Anson  with  his  gang  tip  in  the  woods — and 
hired  him  to  make  off  with  me?"  asked  Helen,  in  swift, 
ringing  words. 

The  dark  olive  of  Beasley's  bold  face  shaded  to  a  dirty 
white. 

"Wha-at?"  he  jerked  out,  hoarsely. 

"I  see  you  remember.  Well,  Milt  Dale  was  hidden  in 
the  loft  of  that  cabin  where  you  met  Anson.  He  heard 
every  word  of  your  deal  with  the  outlaw." 

Beasley  swung  his  arm  in  sudden  violence,  so  hard  that 
he  flung  his  glove  to  the  floor.  As  he  stooped  to  snatch 
it  up  he  uttered  a  sibilant  hiss.  Then,  stalking  to  the 
door,  he  jerked  it  open,  and  slammed  it  behind  him.  Hu 
loud  voice,  hoarse  with  passion,  preceded  the  scrape  and 
crack  of  hoofs. 

Shortly  after  supper  that  day,  when  Helen  was  just 
recovering  her  composure,  Carmichael  presented  himself 
at  the  open  door.  Bo  was  not  there.  In  the  dimming 
twilight  Helen  saw  that  the  cowboy  was  pale,  somber, 
grim. 

"Oh,  what's  happened?"  cried  Helen. 

"Roy's  been  shot.  It  come  off  in  Turner's  saloon. 
But  he  ain't  dead.  We  packed  him  over  to  Widow  Cass's. 
An'  he  said  for  me  to  tell  you  he'd  pull  through." 

"Shot!  Pull  through!"  repeated  Helen,  in  slow,  un- 
realizing  exclamation.  She  was  conscious  of  a  deep  inter- 
nal tumult  and  a  cold  checking  of  blood  in  all  her  external 
body. 

"Yes,  shot,"  replied  Carmichael,  fiercely.  "An1,  what- 
ever he  says,  I  reckon  he  won't  pull  through." 

"  O  Heaven,  how  terrible ! "  burst  out  Helen.     "  He  wa3 

254 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

so  good — such  a  man!  What  a  pity!  Oh,  he  must  have 
met  that  in  my  behalf.  Tell  me,  what  happened?  Who 
shot  him?" 

4 'Wai,  I  don't  know.  An*  thet's  what's  made  me 
hoppin'  mad.  I  wasn't  there  when  it  come  off.  An*  he 
won't  tell  me.'* 

"Why  not?" 

"I  don't  know  thet,  either.  I  reckoned  first  it  was 
because  he  wanted  to  get  even.  But,  after  thinkin'  it 
over,  I  guess  he  doesn't  want  me  lookin'  up  any  one  right 
now  for  fear  I  might  get  hurt.  An'  you're  goin'  to  need 
your  friends.  Thet's  all  I  can  make  of  Roy." 

Then  Helen  hurriedly  related  the  event  of  Beasley's 
call  on  ber  that  afternoon  and  all  that  had  occurred. 

"Wai,  the  half-breed  son-of-a-greaser ! "  ejaculated  Car- 
michael,  in  utter  confoundment.  "He  wanted  you  to 
marry  him  " 

"He  certainly  did.  L  must  say  it  was  a — a  rather 
abrupt  proposal." 

Carmichael  appeared  to  be  laboring  with  speech  that 
had  to  be  smothered  behind  his  teeth.  At  last  he  let  out 
an  explosive  breath. 

"Miss  Nell,  I've  shore  felt  in  my  bones  thet  I'm  the  boy 
slated  to  brand  thet  big  bull." 

"Oh,  he  must  have  shot  Roy.    He  left  here  in  a  rage." 

"I  reckon  you  can  coax  it  out  of  Roy.  Fact  is,  all  I 
could  learn  was  thet  Roy  come  in  the  saloon  alone. 
Beasley  was  there,  an  Riggs — " 

"Riggs!"  interrupted  B-len. 

"  Shore,  Riggs.  He  come  back  again.  But  he'd  better 
keep  out  of  my  way.  ...  An:  Jeff  Mulvey  with  his  outfit. 
Turner  told  me  he  heard  an  argument  an*  then  a  shot. 
The  gang  cleared  out,  leavin'  Roy  on  the  floor.  I  come 
in  a  little  later.  Roy  was  still  layin'  there.  Nobody  was 
doin'  anythin'  for  him.  An'  nobody  had.  I  hold  that 
against  Turner.  Wai,  I  got  help  an'  packed  Roy  over  to 
Widow  Cass's.  Roy  seemed  all  right.  But  he  was  too 

255 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

bright  an*  talky  to  suit  me.  The  bullet  hit  his  lungf 
thet's  shore.  An'  he  lost  a  sight  of  blood  before  we 
stopped  it.  Thet  skunk  Turner  might  have  lent  a  hand, 
An*  if  Roy  croaks  I  reckon  I'll — " 

"Tom,  why  must  you  always  be  reckoning  to  kill  some- 
body?" demanded  Helen,  angrily. 

"  'Cause  somebody's  got  to  be  killed  'round  here.  Thet's 
why!"  he  snapped  back. 

"Even  so  -should  you  risk  leaving  Bo  and  me  without 
a  friend?"  asked  Helen,  reproachfully. 

At  that  Carmichael  wavered  and  lost  something  of  his 
sullen  deadliness. 

' '  Aw,  Miss  Nell,  I'm  only  mad.  If  you'll  just  be  patient 

with  me — an'  mebbe  coax  me But  I  can't  see  no  other 

way  out." 

"Let's  hope  and  pray,"  said  Helen,  earnestly.  "You 
spoke  of  my  coaxing  Roy  to  tell  who  shot  him.  When 
can  I  see  him?" 

"To-morrow,  I  reckon.  I'll  come  for  you.  Fetch  Bo 
along  with  you.  We've  got  to  play  safe  from  now  on. 
An'  what  do  you  say  to  me  an'  Hal  sleepin*  here  at  the 
ranch-house?" 

" Indeed  I'd  feel  safer,"  she  replied.  "There  are  rooms. 
Please  come." 

"All  right.  An'  now  I'll  be  goin'  to  fetch  Hal.  Shore 
wish  I  hadn't  made  you  pale  an'  scared  like  this." 

About  ten  o'clock  next  morning  Carmichael  drove 
Helen  and  Bo  into  Pine,  and  tied  up  the  team  before 
Widow  Cass's  cottage. 

The  peach-  and  apple-trees  were  mingling  blossoms  of 
pink  and  white;  a  drowsy  hum  of  bees  filled  the  fragrant 
air;  rich,  dark-green  alfalfa  covered  the  small  orchard 
fiat;  a  wood  fire  sent  up  a  lazy  column  of  blue  smoke; 
and  birds  were  singing  sweetly. 

Helen  could  scarcely  believe  that  amid  all  this  tran- 
quillity a  man  lay  perhaps  fatally  injured.  Assuredly 

356 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Carmichael  had  been  somber  and  reticent  enough  tfe 
rouse  the  gravest  fears. 

Widow  Cass  appeared  on  the  little  porch,  a  gray,  bentf 
worn,  but  cheerful  old  woman  whom  Helen  had  come  to 
know  as  her  friend. 

"My  land!  I'm  thet  glad  to  see  you,  Miss  Helen," 
she  said.  "An*  you've  fetched  the  little  lass  as  I've  not 
got  acquainted  with  yet." 

"Good  morning,  Mrs.  Cass.  How — how  is  Roy?"  re- 
plied Helen,  anxiously  scanning  the  wrinkled  face. 

"Roy?  Now  don't  you  look  so  scared.  Roy's  'most 
ready  to  git  on  his  hoss  an'  ride  home,  if  I  let  him.  He 
knowed  you  was  a-comin'.  An'  he  made  me  hold  a 
lookin'-glass  for  him  to  shave.  How's  thet  fer  a  man 
with  a  bullet-hole  through  him!  You  can't  kill  them 
Mormons,  nohow." 

She  led  them  into  a  little  sitting-room,  where  on  a 
couch  underneath  a  window  Roy  Beeman  lay.  He  was 
wide  awake  and  smiling,  but  haggard  He  lay  partly 
covered  with  a  blanket.  His  gray  shirt  was  open  at  the 
neck,  disclosing  bandages. 

"Mornin* — girls,"  he  drawled.  "Shore  is  good  of  you, 
now,  comin'  down." 

Helen  stood  beside  him,  bent  over  him,  in  her  earnest- 
ness, as  she  greeted  him.  She  saw  a  shade  of  pain  in  his 
eyes  and  his  immobility  struck  her,  but  he  did  not  seem 
badly  off.  Bo  was  pale,  round-eyed,  and  apparently  too 
agitated  to  speak.  Carmichael  placed  chairs  beside  the 
couch  for  the  girls. 

"Wai,  what's  ailin'  vou  this  nice  mornin'?"  asked  Royf 
eyes  on  the  cowboy. 

"  Huh !  Would  you  expect  me  to  be  wearin'  the  smile  of 
a  fellar  goin'  to  be  married?"  retorted  Carmichael. 

"Shore  you  haven't  made  up  with  Bo  yet,"  returned 
Roy. 

Bo  blushed  rosy  red,  and  the  cowboy's  face  lost  some 
thing  of  its  somber  hue. 

257 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

*'I  all^w  it's  none  of  your  d — darn  bizness  if  she  'ain^l 
made  up  with  me,"  he  said. 

"Las  Vegas,  you're  a  wonder  with  a  hoss  an'  a  rope,  anc 
I  reckon  with  a  gun,  but  when  it  comes  to  girls  you  shore 
ain't  there." 

"I'm  no  Mormon,  by  golly!  Come,  Ma  Cass,  let's  get 
out  of  here,  so  they  can  talk." 

"Folks,  I  was  jest  a-goin'  to  say  thet  Roy's  got  fever 
an1  he  oughtn't  t'  talk  too  much,"  said  the  old  woman* 
Then  she  and  Carmichael  went  into  the  kitchen  and  closed 
the  door. 

Roy  looked  up  at  Helen  with  his  keen  eyes,  more  kindly 
piercing  than  ever. 

"My  brother  John  was  here.  He'd  just  left  when 
you  come.  He  rode  home  to  tell  my  folks  I'm  not 
so  bad  hurt,  an*  then  he's  goin'  to  ride  a  bee-line  into 
the  mountains." 

Helen's  eyes  asked  what  her  lips  refused  to  utter. 

"He's  goin'  after  Dale.  I  sent  him.  I  reckoned  we-all 
«orta  needed  sight  of  thet  doggone  hunter." 

Roy  had  averted  his  gaze  quickly  to  Bo. 

"Don't  you  agree  with  me,  lass?" 

"  I  sure  do,"  replied  Bo,  heartily. 

All  within  Helen  had  been  stilled  for  the  moment  of  her 
realization;  and  then  came  swell  and  beat  of  heart,  and 
inconceivable  chafing  of  a  tide  at  its  restraint. 

"  Can  John — fetch  Dale  out — when  the  snow's  so  deep?'1 
she  asked,  unsteadily. 

"Shore.  He's  takin1  two  bosses  up  to  the  snow-line. 
Then,  if  necessary,  he'll  go  over  the  pass  on  snow-shoes. 
But  I  bet  him  Dale  would  ride  out.  Snow's  about  gone 
except  on  the  north  slopes  an'  on  the  peaks." 

"Then — when  ma>  I — we  expect  to  see  Dale?" 

"Three  or  four  days,  I  reckon.  I  wish  he  was  here 
now.  .  .  .  Miss  Helen,  there's  trouble  afoot." 

"I  realize  that.     I'm  ready.    Did  Las  Vegas  tell 
ebout  Beasley's  visit  to  me?" 

35? 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"No.    You  tell  me,"  replied  Roy. 

Briefly  Helen  began  to  acquaint  him  with  the  circum- 
stances of  that  visit,  and  before  she  had  finished  she  made 
sure  Roy  was  swearing  to  himself. 

"He  asked  you  to  marry  him!  Jerusalem!  .  .  .  Thet 
I'd  never  have  reckoned.  The — low-down  coyote  of  a 
greaser!  .  .  .  Wai,  Miss  Helen,  when  I  met  up  with 
Senor  Beasley  last  night  he  was  shore  spoilin'  from  some- 
thin';  now  I  see  what  thet  was.  An'  I  reckon  I  picked 
out  the  bad  time." 

"For  what?    Roy,  what  did  you  do?" 

"Wai,  I'd  made  up  my  mind  awhile  back  to  talk  ta 
Beasley  the  first  chance  I  had.  An'  thet  was  it.  I  was  in 
the  store  when  I  seen  him  go  into  Turner's.  So  I  followed. 
It  was  'most  dark.  Beasley  an'  Riggs  an'  Mulvey  an'  some 
more  were  drinkin'  an'  powwowin'.  So  I  just  braced  him 
right  then." 

"Roy!   Oh,  the  way  you  boys  court  danger!" 

"But,  Miss  Helen,  thet's  the  only  way.  To  be  afraid 
makes  more  danger.  Beasley  'peared  civil  enough  first  off. 
Him  an'  me  kept  edgin'  off,  an'  his  pards  kept  edgin'  after 
us,  I'll  we  got  over  in  a  corner  of  the  saloon.  I  don't 
know  all  I  said  to  him.  Shore  I  talked  a  heap.  I  told  him 
what  my  old  man  thought.  An*  Beasley  knowed  as  well 
as  I  thet  my  old  man's  not  only  the  oldest  inhabitant  here- 
abouts, but  he's  the  wisest,  too.  An'  he  wouldn't  tell  a 
lie.  Wai,  I  used  all  his  savin's  in  my  argument  to  show 
Beasley  thet  if  he  didn't  haul  up  short  he'd  end  almost 
as  short.  Beasley's  thick-headed,  an'  powerful  conceited. 
Vain  as  a  peacock!  He  couldn't  see,  an'  he  got  mad.  I 
told  him  he  was  rich  enough  without  robbin'  you  of  your 
ranch,  an* — wal,  I  shore  put  up  a  big  talk  for  your  side. 
By  this  time  he  an'  his  gang  had  me  crowded  in  a  corner, 
an*  from  their  looks  I  begun  to  get  cold  feet.  But  I  was 
in  it  an'  had  to  make  the  best  of  it.  The  argument  worked 
down  to  his  pinnin'  me  to  my  word  thet  I'd  fight  for  you 
when  thet  fight  come  off.  An'  I  shore  told  him  for  my  own 

259 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

sake  I  wished  it  'd  come  off  quick.  .  .  .  Then — wal — theft 
somethin'  did  come  off  quick!" 

"  Roy,  then  he  shot  you !"  exclaimed  Helen,  passionately. 

"Now,  Miss  Helen,  I  didn't  say  who  done  it,"  replied 
Roy,  with  his  engaging  smile. 

"Tell  me,  then— who  did?" 

"Wal,  I  reckon  I  sha'n't  tell  you  unless  you  promise 
not  to  tell  Las  Vegas.  Thet  cowboy  is  plumb  off  his  head. 
He  thinks  he  knows  who  shot  me  an'  I've  been  lyin' 
somethin'  scandalous.  You  see,  if  he  learns — then  he'll  go 
gunnin'.  An',  Miss  Helen,  thet  Texan  is  bad.  He  might 
get  plugged  as  I  did — an'  there  would  be  another  man  put 
off  your  side  when  the  big  trouble  comes." 

"Roy,  I  promise  you  I  will  not  tell  Las  Vegas,"  replied 
Helen,  earnestly. 

"Wal,  then — it  was  Riggs!"  Roy  grew  still  paler  as  he 
confessed  this  and  his  voice,  almost  a  whisper,  expressed 
shame  and  hate.  "Thet  four-flush  did  it.  Shot  me  from 
behind  Beasley!  I  had  no  chance.  I  couldn't  even  see 
him  draw.  But  when  I  fell  an'  lay  there  an'  the  others 
dropped  back,  then  I  seen  the  smokin'  gun  in  his  band. 
He  looked  powerful  important.  An'  Beasley  began  to  cuss 
him  an'  was  cussin'  him  as  they  all  run  out." 

"Oh,  coward!  the  despicable  coward!"  cried  Helen. 
"No  wonder  Tom  wants  to  find  out!"  exclaimed  Bo,  low 
and  deep.    "I'll  bet  he  suspects  Rifgs." 

"  Shore  he  does,  but  I  wouldn't  give  him  no  satisfaction." 

"Roy,  you  know  that  Riggs  can't  last  out  here." 

"Wal,  I  hope  he  lasts  till  I  get  on  my  feet  again." 

''There  you  go!  Hopeless,  all  you  boys!  You  must 
spill  blood!"  murmured  Helen,  shudderingly. 

"Dear  Miss  Helen,  don't  take  on  so.  I'm  like  Dale — 
no  man  to  hunt  up  trouble.  But  out  here  there's  a  sort 
of  unwritten  law — an  eye  for  an  eye — a  tooth  for  a 
tooth.  I  believe  in  God  Almighty,  an'  killin'  is  against 
xny  religion,  but  Riggs  shot  me — the  same  as  shootin' 
me  in  the  back." 

260 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"Roy,  I'm  only  a  woman — I  fear,  faint-hearted  and 
unequal  to  this  West." 

"Wait  till  somethin'  happens  to  you.  Supposin'  Beas- 
ley  conies  an'  grabs  you  with  his  own  dirty  big  paws  an', 
after  maulin'  you  some,  throws  you  out  of  your  home! 
Or  supposin'  Riggs  chases  you  into  a  corner!" 

Helen  felt  the  start  of  all  her  physical  being — a  violent 
leap  of  blood.  But  she  could  only  judge  of  her  looks  from 
the  grim  smile  of  the  wounded  man  as  he  watched  her  with 
his  keen,  intent  eyes. 

"My  friend,  anythin'  can  happen,"  he  said.  "But  let's 
hope  it  won't  be  the  worst." 

He  had  begun  to  show  signs  of  weakness,  and  Helen, 
rising  at  once,  said  that  she  and  Bo  had  better  leave  him 
then,  but  would  come  to  see  him  the  next  day.  At  her 
call  Carmichael  entered  again  with  Mrs.  Cass,  and  after  a 
few  remarks  the  visit  was  terminated.  Carmichael  lingered 
in  the  doorway. 

"Wai,  cheer  up,  you  old  Mormon!"  he  called. 

"Cheer  up  yourself,  you  cross  old  bachelor!"  retorted 
Roy,  quite  unnecessarily  loud.  "Can't  you  raise  enough 
nerve  to  make  up  with  Bo?" 

Carmichael  evacuated  the  doorway  as  if  he  had  been 
spurred.  He  was  quite  red  in  the  face  while  he  unhitched 
the  team,  and  silent  during  the  ride  up  to  the  ranch-house. 
There  he  got  down  and  followed  the  girls  into  the  sitting- 
room.  He  appeared  still  somber,  though  not  sullen,  and 
had  fully  regained  his  composure. 

"Did  you  find  out  who  shot  Roy?"  he  asked,  abruptly, 
of  Helen. 

"Yes.  But  I  promised  Roy  I  would  not  tell,"  replied 
Helen,  nervously.  She  averted  her  eyes  from  his  searching 
gaze,  intuitively  fearing  his  next  query. 

"Wasitthet— Riggs?" 

"  Las  Vegas,  don't  ask  me.  I  will  not  break  my  promise.'9 

He  strode  to  the  window  and  looked  out  a  moment,  and 
presently,  when  he  turned  toward  Bo,  he  seemed  a  stronger^ 

261 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

loftier,  more  impelling  man,  with  all  his  emotions  under 
control. 

"  Bo,  will  you  listen  to  me — if  I  swear  to  speak  the  truth 
— as  I  know  it?" 

"Why,  certainly,"  replied  Bo,  with  the  color  coming 
gwiftly  to  her  face. 

"Roy  doesn't  want  me  to  know  because  he  wants  to 
meet  thet  fellar  himself.  An*  I  want  to  know  because  I 
want  to  stop  him  before  he  can  do  more  dirt  to  us  or  our 
friends.  Thet's  Roy's  reason  an'  mine.  An'  I'm  askin* 
you  to  tell  me." 

"But,  Tom— I  oughtn't,"  replied  Bo,  haltingly. 

"Did  you  promise  Roy  not  to  tell?" 

"No." 

"Or  your  sister?" 

"No.    I  didn't  promise  either." 

"Wai,  then  you  tell  me.  I  want  you  to  trust  me  in  this 
here  matter.  But  not  because  I  love  you  an'  once  had  a 
wild  dream  you  might  care  a  little  for  me — " 

"Oh— Tom!"  faltered  Bo. 

"Listen.  I  want  you  to  trust  me  because  I'm  the  one 
who  knows  what's  best.  I  wouldn't  lie  an'  I  wouldn't  say 
so  if  I  didn't  know  shore.  I  swear  Dale  will  back  me  up. 
But  he  can't  be  here  for  some  days.  An'  thet  gang  has 
got  to  be  bluffed.  You  ought  to  see  this.  I  reckon  you've 
been  quick  in  sawyin'  Western  ways.  I  couldn't  pay  you 
no  higher  compliment,  Bo  Rayner.  .  .  .  Now  will  you 
tell  me?" 

"Yes,  I  will,"  replied  Bo,  with  the  blaze  leaping  to  her 
eyes. 

"  Oh,  Bo— please  don't— please  don't.  Wait !' '  implored 
Helen. 

"Bo — it's  between  you  an*  me,"  said  Carmichael. 

"Tom,  I'll  tell  you,"  whispered  Bo.  "It  was  a  low- 
down,  cowardly  trick.  .  .  .  Roy  was  surrounded — and 
shot  from  behind  Beasley — by  that  four-flush  Riggs!" 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  memory  of  a  woman  had  ruined  Milt  Dale's 
peace,  had  confounded  his  philosophy  of  self-suffi- 
cient, lonely  happiness  in  the  solitude  of  the  wilds,  had 
forced  him  to  come  face  to  face  with  his  soul  and  the  fatal 
significance  of  life. 

When  he  realized  his  defeat,  that  things  were  not  as 
they  seemed,  that  there  was  no  joy  for  him  in  the  coming 
of  spring,  that  he  had  been  blind  in  his  free,  sensorial, 
Indian  relation  to  existence,  he  fell  into  an  inexplicably 
strange  state,  a  despondency,  a  gloom  as  deep  as  the  silence 
of  his  home.  Dale  reflected  that  the  stronger  an  animal, 
the  keener  its  nerves,  the  higher  its  intelligence,  the  greater 
must  be  its  suffering  under  restraint  or  injury.  He  thought 
of  himself  as  a  high  order  of  animal  whose  great  physical 
need  was  action,  and  now  the  incentive  to  action  seemed 
dead.  He  grew  lax.  He  did  not  want  to  move.  He  per- 
formed his  diminishing  duties  under  compulsion. 

He  watched  for  spring  as  a  liberation,  but  not  that  he 
could  leave  the  valley.  He  hated  the  cold,  he  grew  weary 
of  wind  and  snow;  he  imagined  the  warm  sun,  the  park 
once  more  green  with  grass  and  bright  with  daisies,  the 
return  of  birds  and  squirrels  and  deer  to  their  old  haunts, 
would  be  the  means  whereby  he  could  break  this  spell 
upon  him.  Then  he  might  gradually  return  to  past  con- 
tentment, though  it  would  never  be  the  same. 

But  spring,  coming  early  to  Paradise  Park,  brought  a 
fever  to  Dale's  blood — a  fire  of  unutterable  longing.  It 
was  good,  perhaps,  that  this  was  so,  because  he  seemed 
driven  to  work,  climb,  tramp,  and  keen  Ceaselessly  on 

263 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

the  move  from  dawn  till  dark.  Action  strengthened  his 
lax  muscles  and  kept  him  from  those  motionless,  sense- 
less hours  of  brooding.  He  at  least  need  not  be  ashamed 
of  longing  for  that  which  cou  d  never  be  his — the  sweet- 
ness of  a  woman — a  home  full  of  light,  joy,  hope,  the 
meaning  and  beauty  of  children.  But  those  dark  moods 
were  sinkings  into  a  pit  of  hell. 

Dale  had  not  kept  track  of  days  and  weeks.  He  did 
not  know  when  the  snow  melted  off  three  slopes  of  Para- 
dise Park.  All  he  knew  was  that  an  age  had  dragged  over 
his  head  and  that  spring  had  come.  During  his  restless 
waking  hours,  and  even  when  he  was  asleep,  there  seemed 
always  in  the  back  of  his  mind  a  growing  consciousness 
that  soon  he  would  emerge  from  this  trial,  a  changed 
man,  ready  to  sacrifice  his  chosen  lot,  to  give  up  his  lonely 
life  of  selfish  indulgence  in  lazy  affinity  with  nature,  and 
to  go  wherever  his  strong  hands  might  perform  some  real 
service  to  people.  Nevertheless,  he  wanted  to  linger  in 
this  mountain  fastness  until  his  ordeal  was  over — until 
he  could  meet  her,  and  the  world,  knowing  himself  more 
of  a  man  than  ever  before. 

One  bright  morning,  while  he  was  at  his  camp-fire,  the 
tame  cougar  gave  a  low,  growling  warning.  Dale  was 
startled.  Tom  did  not  act  like  that  because  of  a  prowl- 
ing grizzly  or  a  straying  stag.  Presently  Dale  espied  a 
horseman  riding  slowly  out  of  the  straggling  spruces. 
And  with  that  sight  Dale's  heart  gave  a  leap,  recalling 
to  him  a  divination  of  his  future  relation  to  his  kind. 
Never  had  he  been  so  glad  to  see  a  man ! 

This  visitor  resembled  one  of  the  Beemans,  judging 
from  the  way  he  sat  his  horse,  and  presently  Dale  recog- 
nized him  to  be  John. 

At  this  juncture  the  jaded  horse  was  spurred  into  a 
trot,  soon  reaching  the  pines  and  the  camp. 

1  'Howdy,  there,  you  ole  b'ar-hunter ! "  called  John,  wav- 
ing his  hand. 

For  all  his  hearty  greeting  his  appearance  checked  a 

264 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

like  response  from  Dale.  The  horse  was  mud  to  hi& 
flanks  and  John  was  mud  to  his  knees,  wet,  bedraggled, 
worn,  and  white.  This  hue  of  his  face  meant  more  than 
fatigue. 

"Howdy,  John?"  replied  Dale. 

They  shook  hands.  John  wearily  swung  his  leg  over 
the  pommel,  but  did  not  at  once  dismount.  His  clear 
gray  eyes  were  wonderingly  riveted  upon  the  hunter. 

"Milt — what  'n  hell's  wrong?"  he  queried. 

"Why?" 

"Bust  me  if  you  ain't  changed  so  I  hardly  loiowed  you, 
You've  been  sick — all  alone  here!" 

"Do  I  look  sick?" 

"Wai,  I  should  smile.  Thin  an'  pale  an'  down  in  the 
mouth !  Milt,  what  ails  you  ? " 

"I've  gone  to  seed." 

"You've  gone  off  your  head,  jest  as  Roy  said,  livin' 
alone  here.  You  overdid  it,  Milt.  An'  you  look  sick." 

"John,  my  sickness  is  here,"  replied  Dale,  soberly,  as 
he  laid  a  hand  on  his  heart. 

"Lung  trouble!"  ejaculated  John.  "With  thet  chest, 
an'  up  in  this  air?  ...  Get  out!" 

"No — not  lung  trouble,"  said  Dale. 

"I  savvy.     Had  a  hunch  from  Roy,  anyhow." 

"What  kind  of  a  hunch?" 

"Easy  now,  Dale,  ole  man.  .  .  .  Don't  you  reckon  I'm 
ridin'  in  on  you  pretty  early?  Look  at  thet  hoss!"  John 
slid  off  and  waved  a  hand  at  the  drooping  beast,  then  be- 
gan to  unsaddle  him.  "Wai,  he  done  great.  We  bogged 
some  comin'  over.  An'  I  climbed  the  pass  at  night  on 
the  frozen  snow." 

"You're  welcome  as  the  flowers  in  May.  John,  what 
month  is  it?" 

"By  spades!  are  you  as  bad  as  thet? .  .  .  Let's  see.  It's 
the  twenty-third  of  March." 

"March!    Well,  I'm  beat.     I've  lost  my  reckonin' — 
an'  a  lot  more,  maybe." 
18  265 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Thar!"  declared  John,  slapping  the  mustang.  "You 
can  jest  hang  up  here  till  my  next  trip.  Milt,  how  're 
your  hosses?" 

"Wintered  fine." 

"Wai,  thet's  good.  We'll  need  two  big,  strong  hosses 
right  off." 

"What  for?"  queried  Dale,  sharply.  He  dropped  a 
stick  of  wood  and  straightened  up  from  the  camp-fire. 

"You're  goin'  to  ride  down  to  Pine  with  me — thet's 
what  for." 

Familiarly  then  came  back  to  Dale  the  quiet,  intent 
suggestiveness  of  the  Beemans  in  moments  foreboding 
trial. 

At  this  certain  assurance  of  John's,  too  significant  to 
be  doubted,  Dale's  thought  of  Pine  gave  slow  birth  to  a 
strange  sensation,  as  if  he  had  been  dead  and  was  vibrat- 
ing back  to  life. 

"Tell  what  you  got  to  tell ! "  he  broke  out. 

Quick  as  a  flash  the  Mormon  replied:  "  Roy's  been  shot. 
But  he  won't  die.  He  sent  for  you.  Bad  deal's  afoot. 
Beasley  means  to  force  Helen  Rayner  out  an'  steal  her 
ranch." 

A  tremor  ran  all  through  Dale.  It  seemed  another 
painful  yet  thrilling  connection  between  his  past  and  this 
vaguely  calling  future.  His  emotions  had  been  broodings 
dreams,  longings.  This  thing  his  friend  said  had  the 
sting  of  real  life. 

"Then  old  Al's  dead?"  he  asked. 

"Long  ago — I  reckon  around  the  middle  of  February. 
The  property  went  to  Helen.  She's  been  doin'  fine.  An' 
many  folks  say  it's  a  pity  she'll  lose  it." 

"She  won't  lose  it,"  declared  Dale.  How  strange  his 
voice  sounded  to  his  own  ears!  .It  was  hoarse  and  un- 
real, as  if  from  disuse. 

"Wai,  we-all  have  our  idees.  I  say  she  will.  My 
father  says  so.  Carmichael  says  so." 

"Who's  he?" 

266 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Reckon  you  remember  thet  cow-puncher  who  came 
up  with  Roy  an'  Auchincloss  after  the  girls — last  fall?" 

"Yes.  They  called  him  Las — Las  Vegas.  I  liked  his 
looks." 

"Humph !  You'll  like  him  a  heap  when  you  know  him. 
He's  kept  the  ranch  goin'  for  Miss  Helen  all  along.  But 
the  deal's  comin'  to  a  head.  Beasley's  got  thick  with 
thet  Riggs.  You  remember  him?" 

"Yes." 

"Wai,  he's  been  hangin'  out  at  Pine  all  winter,  watchin* 
for  some  chance  to  get  at  Miss  Helen  or  Bo.  Everybody's 
seen  thet.  An'  jest  lately  he  chased  Bo  on  hossback — 
gave  the  kid  a  nasty  fall.  Roy  says  Riggs  was  after  Miss 
Helen.  But  I  think  one  or  t'other  of  the  girls  would  do 
thet  varmint.  Wai,  thet  sorta  started  goin's-on.  Car- 
michael  beat  Riggs  an'  drove  him  out  of  town.  But  he 
come  back.  Beasley  called  on  Miss  Helen  an'  offered 
to  ttxarry  her  so's  not  to  take  the  ranch  from  her,  he 
said." 

Dale  awoke  with  a  thundering  curse. 

"Shore!"  exclaimed  John.  "I'd  say  the  same — only 
I'm  religoos.  Don't  thet  beady-eyed  greaser's  gall  make 
you  want  to  spit  all  over  yourself?  My  Gawd!  but  Roy 
was  mad!  Roy's  powerful  fond  of  Miss  Helen  an'  Bo. 
.  .  .  Wai,  then,  Roy,  first  chance  he  got,  braced  Beasley 
an'  give  him  some  straight  talk.  Beasley  was  foamin'  at 
the  mouth,  Roy  said.  It  was  then  Riggs  shot  Roy.  Shot 
him  from  behind  Beasley  when  Roy  wasn't  lookin'!  An* 
Riggs  brags  of  bein'  a  gun-fighter.  Mebbe  thet  wasn't  a 
bad  shot  for  him!" 

"  I  reckon,"  replied  Dale,  as  he  swallowed  hard.  "Now, 
just  what  was  Roy's  message  to  me?" 

"Wai,  I  can't  remember  all  Rcy  said,"  answered  John, 
dubiously.  "But  Roy  shore  was  excited  an'  dead  in  ear- 
nest. He  says:  'Tell  Milt  what's  happened.  Tell  him 
Helen  Rayner's  in  more  danger  than  she  was  last  fall. 
Tell  him  I've  seen  her  look  away  acrost  the  mountains 

267 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

toward  Paradise  Park  with  her  heart  in  her  eyes.  Tell 
him  she  needs  him  most  of  all!' " 

Dale  shook  all  over  as  with  an  attack  of  ague.  He  was 
seized  by  a  whirlwind  of  passionate,  terrible  sweetness  of 
sensation,  when  what  he  wildly  wanted  was  to  curse  Roy 
and  John  for  their  simple-minded  conclusions. 

" Roy's — 'crazy!"  panted  Dale. 

"Wai,  now,  Milt — thet's  downright  surprisin*  of  you. 
Roy's  the  level-headest  of  any  fellars  I  know." 

"Man!  if  he  made  me  believe  him — an'  it  turned  out 
untrue— I'd— I'd  kill  him,"  replied  Dale. 

"Untrue!    Do  you  think  Roy  Beeman  would  lie?" 

"But,  John — you  fellows  can't  see  my  case.  Nell  Rayner 
wants  me — needs  me!  ...  It  can't  be  true!" 

"Wai,  my  love-sick  pard — it  jest  is  true!"  exclaimed 
John,  feelingly.  "Thet's  the  hell  of  life — never  knowin'. 
But  here  it's  joy  for  you.  You  can  believe  Roy  Beeman 
about  women  as  quick  as  you'd  trust  him  to  track  your 
lost  hoss.  Roy's  married  three  girls.  I  reckon  he'll  marry 
some  more.  Roy's  only  twenty-eight  an'  he  has  two  big 
farms.  He  said  he'd  seen  Nell  Rayner's  heart  in  her  eyes, 
lookin'  for  you — an'  you  can  jest  bet  your  life  thet's  true. 
An'  he  said  it  because  he  means  you  to  rustle  down  there 
an'  fight  for  thet  girl." 

"I'll — go,"  said  Dale,  in  a  shaky  whisper,  as  he  sat 
down  on  a  pine  log  near  the  fire.  He  stared  unseeingly  at 
the  bluebells  in  the  grass  by  his  feet  while  storm  after 
storm  possessed  his  breast.  They  were  fierce  and  brief 
because  driven  by  his  will.  In  those  few  moments  of  con- 
tending strife  Dale  was  immeasurably  removed  from  that 
dark  gulf  of  self  which  had  made  his  winter  a  nightmare. 
And  when  he  stood  erect  again  it  seemed  that  the  old 
earth  had  a  stirring,  electrifying  impetus  for  his  feet. 
Something  black,  bitter,  melancholy,  and  morbid,  always 
unreal  to  him,  had  passed  away  forever.  The  great 
moment  had  been  forced  upon  him.  He  did  not  believe 
Roy  Beeman's  preposterous  hint  regarding  Helen;  but 

268 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

he  had  gone  back  or  soared  onward,  as  if  by  magic, 
to  his  old  true  self. 

Mounted  on  Dale's  strongest  horses,  with  only  a  light 
pack,  an  ax,  and  their  weapons,  the  two  men  had  reached 
the  snow-line  on  the  pass  by  noon  that  day.  Tom,  the  tame 
cougar,  trotted  along  in  the  rear. 

The  crust  of  the  snow,  now  half  thawed  by  the  sun, 
would  not  hold  the  weight  of  a  horse,  though  it  upheld  the 
men  on  foot.  They  walked,  leading  the  horses.  Travel  was 
not  difficult  until  the  snow  began  to  deepen;  then  progress 
slackened  materially.  John  had  not  been  able  to  pick 
out  the  line  of  the  trail,  so  Dale  did  not  follow  his  tracks. 
An  old  blaze  on  the  trees  enabled  Dale  to  keep  fairly  well 
to  the  trail;  and  at  length  the  height  of  the  pass  was 
reached,  where  the  snow  was  deep.  Here  the  horses 
labored,  plowing  through  foot  by  foot.  When,  finally,  they 
sank  to  their  flanks,  they  had  to  be  dragged  and  goaded 
on,  and  helped  by  thick  flat  bunches  of  spruce  boughs 
placed  under  their  hoofs.  It  took  three  hours  of  breaking 
toil  to  do  the  few  hundred  yards  of  deep  snow  on  the  height 
of  the  pass.  The  cougar  did  not  have  great  difficulty  in 
following,  though  it  was  evident  he  did  not  like  such 
traveling. 

That  behind  them,  the  horses  gathered  heart  and  worked 
on  to  the  edge  of  the  steep  descent,  where  they  had  all 
they  could  do  to  hold  back  from  sliding  and  rolling.  Fast 
time  was  made  on  this  slope,  at  the  bottom  of  which  began 
a  dense  forest  with  snow  still  deep  in  places  and  windfalls 
hard  to  locate.  The  men  here  performed  Herculean  labors, 
but  they  got  through  to  a  park  where  the  snow  was  gone. 
The  ground,  however,  soft  and  boggy,  in  places  was  more 
treacherous  than  the  snow;  and  the  travelers  had  to  skirt 
the  edge  of  the  park  to  a  point  opposite,  and  then  go  on 
through  the  forest.  When  they  reached  bare  and  solid 
ground,  just  before  dark  that  night,  it  was  high  time,  for 

the  horses  were  ready  to  drop,  and  the  men  likewise. 

?6.o 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Camp  was  made  in  an  open  wood.  Darkness  fell  and  the 
men  were  resting  on  bough  beds,  feet  to  the  fire,  with  Tom 
curled  up  close  by,  and  the  horses  still  drooping  where  they 
had  been  unsaddled.  Morning,  however,  discovered  them 
grazing  on  the  long,  bleached  grass.  John  shook  his  head 
when  he  looked  at  them. 

"You  reckoned  to  make  Pine  by  nightfall.  How  far 
is  it  —  the  way  you'll  go?" 

"  Fifty  mile  or  thereabouts,"  replied  Dale. 

"  Wai,  we  can't  ride  it  on  them  critters." 

"•John,  we'd  do  more  than  that  if  we  had  to." 

They  were  saddled  and  on  the  move  before  sunrise, 
leaving  snow  and  bog  behind.  Level  parks  and  level  forests 
led  one  after  another  to  long  slopes  and  steep  descents, 
all  growing  sunnier  and  greener  as  the  altitude  diminished. 
Squirrels  and  grouse,  turkeys  and  deer,  and  less  tame 
denizens  of  the  forest  grew  more  abundant  as  the  travel 
advanced.  In  this  game  zone,  however,  Dale  had  trouble 
with  Tom.  The  cougar  had  to  be  watched  and  called  often 
to  keep  hin?  off  of  trails. 

"Tom  doesn't  like  9  long  trip,"  said  Dale.  "But  I'm 
goin*  to  take  him.  Somfc  way  or  other  hf  roay  come  in 


handy." 

"Sic  him  onto  Beasley's  gang,"  replied  John.    "Some  t 
men  are  powerful  scared  of  cougars.   But  I  never  was." 

"Nor  me.  Though  I've  had  cougars  give  me  a  darn 
uncanny  feelin'." 

The  men  talked  but  little.  Dale  led  the  way,  with 
Tom  trotting  noiselessly  beside  his  horse.  John  followed 
close  behind.  They  loped  the  horses  across  parks,  trotted 
through  the  forests,  walked  slow  up  what  few  inclines  they 
met,  and  slid  down  the  soft,  wet,  pine-matted  descents. 
So  they  averaged  from  six  to  eight  miles  an  hour.  The 
horses  held  up  well  under  that  steady  travel,  and  this  with- 
out any  rest  at  noon, 

Dale  seemed  to  feel  himself  in  an  emotional  trance.  Yet, 
despite  this,  the  same  old  sensorial  perceptions  crowded 

270 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

thick  and  fast  upon  him,  strangely  sweet  and  vivid  after 
the  past  dead  months  when  neither  sun  nor  wind  nor  cloud 
nor  scent  of  pine  nor  anything  in  nature  could  stir  him. 
His  mind,  his  heart,  his  soul  seemed  steeped  in  an  intoxi- 
cating wine  of  expectation,  while  his  eyes  and  ears  and 
nose  had  never  been  keener  to  register  the  facts  of  the 
forest-land.  He  saw  the  black  thing  far  ahead  that  resem- 
bled a  burned  stump,  but  he  knew  was  a  bear  before  it 
vanished ;  he  saw  gray  flash  of  deer  and  wolf  and  coyote, 
and  the  red  of  fox,  and  the  small,  wary  heads  of  old  gob- 
blers just  sticking  above  the  grass ;  and  he  saw  deep  tracks 
of  game  as  well  as  the  slow-rising  blades  of  bluebells  where 
some  soft-footed  beast  had  just  trod.  And  he  heard  the 
melancholy  notes  of  birds,  the  twitter  of  grouse,  the  sough 
of  the  wind,  the  light  dropping  of  pine-cones,  the  near 
and  distant  bark  of  squirrels,  the  deep  gobble  of  a  turkey 
close  at  hand  and  the  challenge  from  a  rival  far  away,  the 
cracking  of  twigs  in  the  thickets,  the  murmur  of  running 
water,  the  scream  of  an  eagle  and  the  shrill  cry  of  a  hawk, 
and  always  the  soft,  dull,  steady  pads  of  the  hoofs  of  the 
horses. 

The  smells,  too,  were  the  sweet,  stinging  ones  of 
spring,  warm  and  pleasant  —  the  odor  of  the  clean, 
fresh  earth  cutting  its  way  through  that  thick,  strong 
fragrance  of  pine,  the  smell  of  logs  rotting  in  the  sun, 
and  of  fresh  new  grass  and  flowers  along  a  brook  of 
snow-water. 

"I  smell  smoke,"  said  Dale,  suddenly,  as  he  reined  in, 
and  turned  for  corroboration  from  his  companion. 

John  sniffed  the  warm  air. 

"Wai,  you're  more  of  an  Injun  than  me,"  he  replied, 
shaking  his  head. 

They  traveled  on,  and  presently  came  out  upon  the  rim 
of  the  last  slope.  A  long  league  of  green  slanted  below 
them,  breaking  up  into  straggling  lines  of  trees  and  groves 
that  joined  the  cedars,  and  these  in  turn  stretched  on  and 
down  in  gray-black  patches  to  the  desert,  that  glittering 

27* 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

and  bare,  with  streaks  of  somber  hue,  faded  in  the  obscur- 
ity of  distance. 

The  village  of  Pine  appeared  to  nestle  in  a  curve  of  the 
edge  of  the  great  forest,  and  the  cabins  looked  like  tiny 
white  dots  set  in  green. 

"Look  there,"  said  Dale,  pointing. 

Some  miles  to  the  right  a  gray  escarpment  of  rock 
cropped  out  of  the  slope,  forming  a  promontory;  and  from 
it  a  thin,  pale  column  of  smoke  curled  upward  to  be  lost 
from  sight  as  soon  as  it  had  no  background  of  green. 

"Thet's  your  smoke,  shore  enough/'  replied  John, 
thoughtfully.  "Now,  I  jest  wonder  who's  campin'  there. 
No  water  near  or  grass  for  hosses." 

"John,  that  point's  been  used  for  smoke  signals  many 
a  time." 

"Was  jest  thinkin'  of  thet  same.  Shall  we  ride  around 
there  an'  take  a  peek?" 

"No.  But  we'll  remember  that.  If  Beasley's  got  his 
deep  scheme  goin',  he'll  have  Snake  Anson's  gang  some- 
where close." 

"Roy  said  thet  same.  Wai,  it's  some  three  hours  till 
sundown.  The  hosses  keep  up.  I  reckon  I'm  fooled,  for 
we'll  make  Pine  all  right.  But  old  Tom  there,  he's  tired 
or  lazy." 

The  big  cougar  was  lying  down,  panting,  and  his  half- 
shut  eyes  were  on  Dale. 

"  Tom's  only  lazy  an'  fat.  He  could  travel  at  this  gait  for 
a  week.  But  let's  rest  a  half-hour  an'  watch  that  smoke 
before  movin'  on.  We  can  make  Pine  before  sundown." 

When  travel  had  been  resumed,  half-way  down  the  slope 
Dale's  sharp  eyes  caught  a  broad  track  where  shod  horses 
had  passed,  climbing  in  a  long  slant  toward  the  promon- 
tory. He  dismounted  to  examine  it,  and  John,  coming  up, 
proceeded  with  alacrity  to  get  off  and  do  likewise.  Dale 
made  his  deductions,  after  which  he  stood  in  a  brown  study 
beside  his  horse,  waiting  for  John. 

272 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"Wai,  what  'd  you  make  of  these  here  tracks?"  asked 
that  worthy. 

"Some  horses  an'  a  pony  went  along  here  yesterday,  an' 
to-day  a  single  horse  made  that  fresh  track." 

"Wai,  Milt,  for  a  hunter  you  ain't  so  bad  at  hoss  tracks," 
observed  John.  "But  how  many  hosses  went  yesterday?*' 

"  I  couldn't  make  out — several — maybe  four  or  five." 

"Six  hosses  an'  a  colt  or  little  mustang,  unshod,  to  be 
strict  correct.  Wai,  supposin'  they  did.  What's  it  mean 
to  us?" 

"I  don't  know  as  I'd  thought  anythin'  unusual,  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  that  smoke  we  saw  off  the  rim,  an'  then 
this  here  fresh  track  made  along  to-day.  Looks  queer 
to  me." 

"Wish  Roy  was  here,"  replied  John,  scratching  his  head. 
"  Milt,  I've  a  hunch,  if  he  was,  he'd  foller  them  tracks." 

"  Maybe.  But  we  haven't  time  for  that.  We  can  back- 
trail  them,  though,  if  they  keep  clear  as  they  are  here, 
An'  we'll  not  lose  any  time,  either." 

That  broad  track  led  straight  toward  Pine,  down  to  the 
edge  of  the  cedars,  where,  amid  some  jagged  rocks,  evi- 
dences showed  that  men  had  camped  there  for  days. 
Here  it  ended  as  a  broad  trail.  But  from  the  north  came 
the  single  fresh  track  made  that  very  day,  and  from  the 
east,  more  in  a  line  with  Pine,  came  two  tracks  made  the 
day  before.  And  these  were  imprints  of  big  and  little  hoofs. 
Manifestly  these  interested  John  more  than  they  did  Dale, 
who  had  to  wait  for  his  companion. 

"Milt,  it  ain't  a  colt's — thet  little  track,"  avowed  John. 

"Why  not — an'  what  if  it  isn't?"  queried  Dale. 

"Wai,  it  ain't,  because  a  colt  always  straggles  back, 
an'  from  one  side  to  t'other.  This  little  track  keeps 
close  to  the  big  one.  An',  by  George!  it  was  made  by 
a  led  mustang." 

John  resembled  Roy  Beeman  then  with  that  leaping, 
intent  fire  in  his  gray  eyes.  Dale's  reply  was  to  spur  his 
horse  into  a  trot  and  call  sharply  to  the  lagging  cougar. 

273 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

When  they  turned  into  the  broad,  blossom-bordered 
road  that  was  the  only  thoroughfare  of  Pine  the  sun  was 
setting  red  and  gold  behind  the  mountains.  The  horses 
were  too  tired  for  any  more  than  a  walk.  Natives  of  the 
village,  catching  sight  of  Dale  and  Beeman,  and  the  huge 
gray  cat  following  like  a  dog,  called  excitedly  to  one  an- 
other. A  group  of  men  in  front  of  Turner's  gazed  intently 
down  the  road,  and  soon  manifested  signs  of  excitement. 
Dale  and  his  comrade  dismounted  in  front  of  Widow 
Cass's  cottage.  And  Dale  called  as  he  strode  up  the  little 
path.  Mrs.  Cass  came  out.  She  was  white  and  shaking, 
but  appeared  calm.  At  sight  of  her  John  Beeman  drew  a 
sharp  breath. 

"Wai,  now — "  he  began,  hoarsely,  and  left  off. 

"How's  Roy?"  queried  Dale. 

"Lord  knows  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  boys!  Milt,  you're 
thin  an'  strange-lookin'.  Roy's  had  a  little  setback.  He 
got  a  shock  to-day  an'  it  thro  wed  him  off.  Fever — an'  now 
he's  out  of  his  head.  It  won't  do  no  good  for  you  to  waste 
time  seein'  him.  Take  my  word  for  it  he's  all  right.  But 
there's  others  as —  For  the  land's  sakes,  Milt  Dale,  you 
fetched  thet  cougar  back!  Don't  let  him  near  me!" 

"Tom  won't  hurt  you,  mother,"  said  Dale,  as  the 
cougar  came  padding  up  the  path.  "You  were  savin' 
somethin' — about  others.  Is  Miss  Helen  safe?  Hurry!" 

"Ride  up  to  see  her — an'  waste  no  more  time  here." 

Dale  was  quick  in  the  saddle,  followed  by  John,  but  the 
horses  had  to  be  severely  punished  to  force  them  even  to 
a  trot.  And  that  was  a  lagging  trot,  which  now  did  not 
leave  Tom  behind. 

The  ride  up  to  Auchincloss's  ranch-house  seemed  endless 
to  Dale.  Natives  came  out  in  the  road  to  watch  after  he 
had  passed.  Stern  as  Dale  was  in  dominating  his  feelings, 
he  could  not  wholly  subordinate  his  mounting  joy  to  a 
waiting  terrible  anticipation  of  catastrophe.  But  no  mat- 
ter what  awaited — nor  what  fateful  events  might  hinge 
upon  this  nameless  circumstance  about  to  be  disclosed, 

274 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

the  wonderful  and  glorious  fact  of  the  present  was  that  ia 
a  moment  he  would  see  Helen  Rayner. 

There  were  saddled  horses  in  the  courtyard,  but  no 
riders.  A  Mexican  boy  sat  on  the  porch  bench,  in  the 
seat  where  Dale  remembered  he  had  encountered  Al 
Auchincloss.  The  door  of  the  big  sitting-room  was  open. 
The  scent  of  flowers,  the  murmur  of  bees,  the  pounding  of 
hoofs  came  vaguely  to  Dale.  His  eyes  dimmed,  so  that 
the  ground,  when  he  slid  out  of  his  saddle,  seemed  far 
below  him.  He  stepped  upon  the  porch.  His  sight  sud- 
denly cleared.  A  tight  fullness  at  his  throat  mada  inco- 
herent the  words  he  said  to  the  Mexican  boy.  But  they 
were  understood,  as  the  boy  ran  back  around  the  house. 
Dale  knocked  sharply  and  stepped  over  the  threshold. 

Outside,  John,  true  to  his  habits,  was  thinking,  even  in 
that  moment  of  suspense,  about  the  faithful,  exhausted 
horses.  As  he  unsaddled  them  he  talked:  "Per  soft 
an'  fat  hosses,  winterin'  high  up,  wal,  you've  done 
somethin'!" 

Then  Dale  heard  a  voice  in  another  room,  a  step,  a 
creak  of  the  door.  It  opened.  A  woman  in  white  ap- 
peared. He  recognized  Helen.  But  instead  of  the  rich 
brown  bloom  and  dark-eyed  beauty  so  hauntingly  limned 
on  his  memory,  he  saw  a  white,  beautiful  face,  strained 
and  quivering  in  anguish,  and  eyes  that  pierced  his  heart. 
He  could  not  speak. 

"Oh!  my  friend — you've  come!"  she  whispered. 

Dale  put  out  a  shaking  hand.  But  she  did  not  see  it. 
She  clutched  his  shoulders,  as  if  to  feel  whether  or  not  he 
was  real,  and  then  her  arms  went  up  round  his  neck. 

"Oh,  thank  God!  I  knew  you  would  come!"  she  said, 
and  her  head  sank  to  his  shoulder. 

Dale  divined  what  he  had  suspected.  Helen's  sister  had 
been  carried  off.  Yet,  while  his  quick  mind  grasped  Helen's 
broken  spirit — the  unbalance  that  was  reason  for  this 
marvelous  and  glorious  act — he  did  not  take  other  meaning 
of  the  embrace  to  himself.  He  just  stood  there,  trans-' 

275 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

ported,  charged  like  a  tree  struck  by  lightning,  making 
sure  with  all  his  keen  senses,  so  that  he  could  feel  forever, 
how  she  was  clinging  round  his  neck,  her  face  over  his 
bursting  heart,  her  quivering  form  close  pressed  to  his. 

4 'It's— Bo,"  he  said,  unsteadily. 

"She  went  riding  yesterday — and — never — came — 
back!"  replied  Helen,  brokenly. 

"I've  seen  her  trail.  She's  been  taken  into  the  woods. 
I'll  find  her.  I'll  fetch  her  back,"  he  replied,  rapidly. 

With  a  shock  she  seemed  to  absorb  his  meaning.  With 
another  shock  she  raised  her  face — leaned  back  a  little  to 
look  at  him. 

"You'll  find  her— fetch  her  back?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  instantly. 

With  that  ringing  word  it  seemed  to  Dale  she  realized 
how  she  was  standing.  He  felt  her  shake  as  she  dropped 
her  arms  and  stepped  back,  while  the  white  anguish  of  her 
face  was  flooded  out  by  a  wave  of  scarlet.  But  she  was 
brave  in  her  confusion.  Her  eyes  never  fell,  though  they 
changed  swiftly,  darkening  with  shame,  amaze,  and  with 
feelings  he  could  not  read. 

"I'm  almost — out  of  my  head,"  she  faltered. 

"No  wonder.  I  saw  that.  .  .  .  But  now  you  must  get 
clear-headed.  I've  no  time  to  lose." 

He  led  her  to  the  door. 

"John,  it's  Bo  that's  gone,"  he  called.  "Since  yester- 
day. .  .  .  Send  the  boy  to  get  me  a  bag  of  meat  an'  bread. 
You  run  to  the  corral  an'  get  me  a  fresh  horse.  My  old 
horse  Ranger  if  you  can  find  him  quick.  An'  rustle." 

Without  a  word  John  leaped  bareback  on  one  of  the  horses 
he  had  just  unsaddled  and  spurred  him  across  the  courtyard. 

Then  the  big  cougar,  seeing  Helen,  got  up  from  where 
he  lay  on  the  porch  and  came  to  her. 

"Oh,  it's  Tom!"  cried  Helen,  and  as  he  rubbed  against 
her  knees  she  patted  his  head  with  trembling  hand. 
"You  big,  beautiful  pet!  Oh,  how  I  remember!  Oh,  how" 
Bo  would  love  to — " 

276 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Where's  Carmichael?"  interrupted  Dale.  "Out  hunt- 
in*  Bo?" 

"Yes.  It  was  he  who  missed  her  first.  He  rode  every- 
where yesterday.  Last  night  when  he  came  back  he  was 
wild.  I've  not  seen  him  to-day.  He  made  all  the  other 
men  but  Hal  and  Joe  stay  home  on  the  ranch." 

"Right.  An'  John  must  stay,  too,"  declared  Dale. 
"But  it's  strange.  Carmichael  ought  to  have  found  the 
girl's  tracks.  She  was  ridin'  a  pony?'" 

"  Bo  rode  Sam.    He's  a  little  bronc,  very  strong  and  fast." 

1 '  I  come  across  his  tracks.  How  'd  Carmichael  miss  them  ?" 

"He  didn't.  He  found  them — trailed  them  all  along 
the  north  range.  That's  where  he  forbade  Bo  to  go.  You 
see,  they're  in  love  with  each  other.  They've  been  at  odds. 
Neither  will  give  in.  Bo  disobeyed  him.  There's  hard 
ground  off  the  north  range,  so  he  said.  He  was  able  to 
follow  her  tracks  only  so  far." 

"Were  there  any  other  tracks  along  with  hers?" 

"No." 

"  Miss  Helen,  I  found  them  'way  southeast  of  Pine  Up 
on  the  slope  of  the  mountain.  There  were  seven  other 
horses  makin'  that  trail — when  we  run  across  it.  On  tha 
way  down  we  found  a  camp  where  men  had  waited.  An* 
Bo's  pony,  led  by  a  rider  on  a  big  horse,  come  into  that 
camp  from  the  east — maybe  north  a  little.  An'  that  tells 
the  story." 

"Riggs  ran  her  down — made  off  with  her!"  cried  Helen, 
passionately.  "Oh,  the  villain!  He  had  men  in  waiting. 
That's  Beasley's  work.  They  were  after  me." 

"It  may  not  be  just  what  you  said,  but  that's  close 
enough.  An'  Bo's  in  a  bad  fix.  You  must  face  that  an* 
try  to  bear  up  under — fears  of  the  worst." 

"  My  friend!   You  will  save  her!" 

"I'll  fetch  her  back,  alive  or  dead." 

"Dead!  Oh,  my  God!"  Helen  cried,  and  closed  her 
eyes  an  instant,  to  open  them  burning  black.  "But  Bo 
isn't  dead.  I  know  that— I  feel  it.  She'll  not  die  very 

277 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

easy.  She's  a  little  savage.  She  has  no  fear.  She'd  fight 
like  a  tigress  for  her  life.  She's  strong.  You  remember 
how  strong.  She  can  stand  anything.  Unless  they  murder 
her  outright  she'll  live — a  long  time — through  any  ordeal. 
...  So  I  beg  you,  my  friend,  don't  lose  an  hour — don't 
ever  give  up!" 

Dale  trembled  under  the  clasp  of  her  hands.  Loosing 
his  own  from  her  clinging  hold,  he  stepped  out  on  the  porch. 
At  that  moment  John  appeared  on  Ranger,  coming  at  a 
gallop. 

"Nell,  I'll  never  come  back  without  her,"  said  Dale. 
"I  reckon  you  can  hope — only  be  prepared.  That's  all. 
It's  hard.  But  these  damned  deals  are  common  out  here 
in  the  West." 

"Suppose  Beasley  comes — here!"  exclaimed  Helen,  and 
again  her  hand  went  out  toward  him. 

"If  he  does,  you  refuse  to  get  off,"  replied  Dale.  "But 
don't  let  hi-*"  or  his  greasers  put  a  dirty  hand  on  you. 
Should  he  tL.  .ten  force — why,  pack  some  clothes — an* 
your  valuables — an'  go  down  to  Mrs.  Cass's.  An'  wait 
till  I  come  back!" 

"Wait — till  you — come  back!"  she  faltered,  slowly  turn- 
ing white  again.  Her  dark  eyes  dilated.  "Milt — you're 
like  Las  Vegas.  You'll  kill  Beasley!" 

Dak  heard  his  own  laugh,  very  cold  and  strange,  for- 
eign to  his  ears.  A  grim,  deadly  hate  of  Beasley  vied  with 
the  tenderness  and  pity  he  felt  for  this  distressed  girl.  It 
was  a  sore  trial  to  see  her  leaning  there  against  the  door — 
to  be  compelled  to  leave  her  alone.  Abruptly  he  stalked 
off  the  porch.  Tom  followed  him.  The  black  horse  whin- 
nied his  recognition  of  Dale  and  snorted  at  sight  of  the 
cougar.  Just  then  the  Mexican  boy  returned  with  a  bag. 
Dale  tied  this,  with  the  small  pack,  behind  the  saddle. 

"John,  you  stay  here  with  Miss  Helen,"  said  Dale. 
"An'  if  Carmichael  comes  back,  keep  him,  too!  An'  to- 
night, if  any  one  rides  into  Pine  from  the  way  we  come, 
you  be  sure  to  spot  him." 

278 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"I'll  do  thet,  Milt,"  responded  John. 

Dale  mounted,  and,  turning  for  a  last  word  to  Helen,  he 
felt  the  words  of  cheer  halted  on  his  lips  as  he  saw  her 
standing  white  and  broken-hearted,  with  her  hands  to 
her  bosom.  Hs  could  not  look  twice. 

"Come  on  there,  you  Tom,"  he  called  to  the  cougar. 
"Reckon  on  this  track  you'll  pay  me  for  all  my  trainin'  of 
you." 

"Oh,  my  friend!"  came  Helen's  sad  voice,  almost  a 
whisper  to  his  throbbing  ears.  "Heaven  help  you — to 
save  her!  I—" 

Then  Ranger  started  and  Dale  heard  no  more.  He 
could  not  look  back.  His  eyes  were  full  of  tears  and  his 
breast  ached.  By  a  tremendous  effort  he  shifted  that 
emotion — called  on  all  the  spiritual  energy  of  his  being  to 
the  duty  of  this  grim  task  before  him. 

He  did  not  ride  down  through  the  village,  but  skirted 
the  northern  border,  and  worked  round  to  the  south, 
where,  coming  to  the  trail  he  had  made  an  hour  past,  he 
headed  on  it,  straight  for  the  slope  now  darkening  in  the 
twilight.  The  big  cougar  showed  more  willingness  to  re- 
turn on  this  trail  than  he  had  shown  in  the  coming.  Ranger 
was  fresh  and  wanted  to  go,  but  Dale  held  him  in. 

A  cool  wind  blew  down  from  the  mountain  with  the 
coming  of  n'ght.  Against  the  brightening  stars  Dale  saw 
the  promontory  lift  its  bold  outline.  It  was  miles  away. 
It  haunted  him,  strangely  calling.  A  night,  and  perhaps 
a  day,  separated  him  from  the  gang  that  held  Bo  Rayner 
prisoner.  Dale  had  no  plan  as  yet.  He  had  only  a  motive 
as  great  as  the  love  he  bore  Helen  Rayner. 

Beasley's  evil  genius  had  planned  this  abduction.  Riggs 
was  a  tool,  a  cowardly  knave  dominated  by  a  stronger  will. 
Snake  Anson  and  his  gang  had  lain  in  wait  at  that  cedar 
camp;  had  made  that  broad  hoof  track  leading  up  the 
mountain.  Beasley  had  been  there  with  them  that  very 
dp  7.  All  this  was  as  assured  to  Dale  as  if  he  had  seen  tha 
men. 

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THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

But  the  matter  of  Dale's  recovering  the  girl  and  dotng 
it  speedily  strung  his  mental  strength  to  its  highest  pitch. 
Many  outlines  of  action  flashed  through  his  mind  as  he 
rode  on,  peering  keenly  through  the  night,  listening  with 
practised  ears.  All  were  rejected.  And  at  the  outset  of 
every  new  branching  of  thought  he  would  gaze  down  at 
the  gray  form  of  the  cougar,  long,  graceful,  heavy,  as  he 
padded  beside  the  horse.  From  the  first  thought  of  return- 
ing to  help  Helen  Rayner  he  had  conceived  an  undefined 
idea  of  possible  value  in  the  qualities  of  his  pet.  Tom  had 
performed  wonderful  feats  of  trailing,  but  he  had  never 
been  tried  on  men.  Dale  believed  he  could  make  him  trail 
anything,  yet  he  had  no  proof  of  this.  One  fact  stood  out 
of  all  Dale's  conjectures,  and  it  was  that  he  had  known 
men,  and  brave  men,  to  fear  cougars. 

Far  up  on  the  slope,  in  a  little  hollow  where  water  ran 
and  there  was  a  little  grass  for  Ranger  to  pick,  Dale  hal- 
tered him  and  made  ready  to  spend  the  night.  He  was 
sparing  with  his  food,  giving  Tom  more  than  he  took 
himself.  Curled  close  up  to  Dale,  the  big  cat  went  to  sleep. 

But  Dale  lay  awake  for  long. 

The  night  was  still,  with  only  a  faint  moan  of  wind  on 
this  sheltered  slope.  Dale  saw  hope  in  the  stars.  He  did 
not  seem  to  have  promised  himself  or  Helen  that  he  could 
save  her  sister,  and  then  her  property.  He  seemed  to  have 
stated  something  unconsciously  settled,  outside  of  his 
thinking.  Strange  how  this  certainty  was  not  vague,  yet 
irreconcilable  with  any  plans  he  created !  Behind  it,  some- 
how nameless  with  inconceivable  power,  surged  all  his 
wonderful  knowledge  of  forest,  of  trails,  of  scents,  of  night, 
of  the  nature  of  men  lying  down  to  sleep  in  the  dark, 
lonely  woods,  of  the  nature  of  this  great  cat  that  lived  its 
every  action  in  accordance  with  his  will. 

He  grew  sleepy,  and  gradually  his  mind  stilled,  with  his 
last  conscious  thought  a  portent  that  he  would  awaken 
to  accomplish  his  desperate  task. 

280 


CHAPTER  XX 

OUNG  Burt  possessed  the  keenest  eyes  of  any  man 
in  Snake  Anson's  gang,  for  which  reason  he  was 
given  the  post  as  lookout  from  the  lofty  promontory.  His 
instructions  were  to  keep  sharp  watch  over  the  open 
slopes  below  and  to  report  any  sight  of  a  horse. 

A  cedar  fire  with  green  boughs  on  top  of  dead  wood 
sent  up  a  long,  pale  column  of  smoke.  This  signal-fire  had 
been  kept  burning  since  sunrise. 

The  preceding  night  camp  had  been  made  on  a  level 
spot  in  the  cedars  back  of  the  promontory.  But  manifestly 
Anson  did  not  expect  to  remain  there  long.  For,  after 
breakfast,  the  packs  had  been  made  up  and  the  horses 
stood  saddled  and  bridled.  They  were  restless  and  uneasy, 
tossing  bits  and  fighting  flies.  The  sun,  now  half-way  to 
meridian,  was  hot  and  no  breeze  blew  in  that  sheltered 
spot. 

Shady  Jones  had  ridden  off  early  to  fill  the  water-bags, 
and  had  not  yet  returned.  Anson,  thinner  and  scalier  and 
more  snakelike  than  ever,  was  dealing  a  greasy,  dirty 
deck  of  cards,  his  opponent  being  the  square-shaped, 
black-visaged  Moze.  In  lieu  of  money  the  gamblers 
wagered  with  cedar-berries,  each  of  which  berries  repre- 
sented a  pipeful  of  tobacco.  Jim  Wilson  brooded  under  a 
cedar-tree,  his  unshaven  face  a  dirty  dust-hue,  a  smolder- 
ing fire  in  his  light  eyes,  a  sullen  set  to  his  jaw.  Every 
little  while  he  would  raise  his  eyes  to  glance  at  Riggs,  and 
it  seemed  that  a  quick  glance  was  enough.  Riggs  paced  to 
and  fro  in  the  open,  coatless  and  hatless,  his  black-broad- 
cloth trousers  and  embroidered  vest  dusty  and  torn.  An 

•*9  28* 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

enormous  gun  bumped  awkwardly  in  its  sheath  swinging 
below  his  hip.  Riggs  looked  perturbed.  His  face  was 
sweating  freely,  yet  it  was  far  from  red  in  color.  He  did 
not  appear  to  mind  the  sun  or  the  flies.  His  eyes  were  star- 
ing, dark,  wild,  shifting  in  gaze  from  everything  they 
encountered.  But  often  that  gaze  shot  back  to  the  captive 
girl  sitting  under  a  cedar  some  yards  from  the  man. 

Bo  Rayner's  little,  booted  feet  were  tied  together  with 
one  end  of  a  lasso  and  the  other  end  trailed  off  over  the 
ground.  Her  hands  were  free.  Her  riding-habit  was  dusty 
and  disordered.  Her  eyes  blazed  defiantly  out  of  a  small, 
pale  face. 

"Harve  Riggs,  I  wouldn't  be  standing  in  those  cheap 
boots  of  yours  for  a  million  dollars,"  she  said,  sarcastically. 

Riggs  took  no  notice  of  her  words. 

"You  pack  that  gun-sheath  wrong  end  out.  What  have 
you  got  the  gun  for,  anyhow?"  she  added,  tauntingly. 

Snake  Anson  let  out  a  hoarse  laugh  and  Moze's  black 
visage  opened  in  a  huge  grin.  Jim  Wilson  seemed  to  drink 
in  the  girl's  words.  Sullen  and  somber,  he  bent  his  lean 
head,  very  still,  as  if  listening. 

"You'd  better  shut  up,"  said  Riggs,  darkly. 

"I  will  not  shut  up,"  declared  Bo. 

"Then  I'll  gag  you,"  he  threatened. 

"Gag  me!  Why,  you  dirty,  low-down,  two-bit  of  a 
bluff!"  she  exclaimed,  hotly,  "I'd  like  to  see  you  try  it. 
I'll  tear  that  long  hair  of  yours  right  off  your  head." 

Riggs  advanced  toward  her  with  his  hands  catching, 
as  if  eager  to  throttle  her.  The  girl  leaned  forward,  her 
face  reddening,  her  eyes  fierce. 

"You  damned  little  cat!"  muttered  Riggs,  thickly. 
"I'll  gag  you — if  you  don't  stop  squallin'." 

"Come  on.  I  dare  you  to  lay  a  hand  on  me.  .  .  .  Harve 
Riggs,  I'm  not  the  least  afraid  of  you.  Can't  you  savvy 
that?  You're  a  liar,  a  four-flush,  a  sneak!  Why,  you're 
not  fit  to  wipe  the  feet  of  any  of  these  outlaws." 

Riggs  took  two  long  strides  and  bent  over  her.  his 

282 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

teeth  protruding  in  a  snarl,  and  he  cuffed  her  hard  on  the 
side  of  the  head. 

Bo's  head  jerked  back  with  the  force  of  the  blow,  but 
she  uttered  no  cry. 

"Are  you  goin'  to  keep  ycur  jaw  shut?"  he  demanded, 
stridently,  and  a  dark  tide  of  blood  surged  up  into  his 
neck. 

"I  should  smile  I'm  not/'  retorted  Bo,  in  cool,  delib- 
erate anger  of  opposition.  ' '  You've  roped  me — and  you've 
struck  me!  Now  get  a  club — stand  off  there — out  of  my 
reach — and  beat  me !  Oh,  if  I  only  knew  cuss  words  fit  for 
you — I'd  call  you  them!" 

Snake  Anson  had  stopped  playing  cards,  and  was  watch- 
ing, listening,  with  half-disgusted,  half-amused  expression 
on  his  serpent-like  face.  Jim  Wilson  slowly  rose  to  his 
feet.  If  any  one  had  observed  him  it  would  have  been 
to  note  that  he  now  seemed  singularly  fascinated  by  this 
scene,  yet  all  the  while  absorbed  in  himself.  Once  he 
loosened  the  neck-band  of  his  blouse. 

Riggs  swung  his  arm  more  violently  at  the  girl.  But  she 
dodged. 

"You  dog!"  she  hissed.    "Oh,  if  I  only  had  a  gun!" 

Her  face  then,  with  its  dead  whiteness  and  the  eyes  of 
flame,  held  a  tragic,  impelling  beauty  that  stung  Anson 
into  remonstrance. 

"Aw,  Riggs,  don't  beat  up  the  kid,"  he  protested. 
*Thet  won't  do  any  good.  Let  her  alone." 

"But  she's  got  tc  sirut  up,"  replied  Riggs. 

"How  'n  hell  air  you  goin'  to  shet  her  up?  Mebbe  if 
you  get  out  of  her  sight  she'll  be  quiet.  .  .  .  How  about 
thet,  girl?" 

Anson  gnawed  his  drooping  mustache  as  he  eyed  Bo. 

"Have  I  made  any  kick  to  you  or  your  men  yet?"  she 
queried. 

"It  strikes  me  you  'ain't,"  replied  Anson. 

"You  won  t  hear  me  make  any  so  long  as  I'm  treated 
decent,"  said  Bo.  "I  don't  know  what  you've  got  to  do 

283 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

with  Riggs.  He  ran  me  down — roped  me — dragged  me 
to  your  camp.  Now  I've  a  hunch  you're  waiting  for 
Beasley." 

"Girl,  your  hunch  's  correct,"  said  Anson. 

"  Well,  do  you  know  I'm  the  wrong  girl?" 

"What's  thet?  I  reckon  you're  Nell  Rayner,  who  got 
left  all  old  Auchincloss's  property." 

"  No.  I'm  Bo  Rayner.  Nell  is  my  sister.  She  owns  the 
ranch.  Beasley  wanted  her." 

Anson  cursed  deep  and  low.  Under  his  sharp,  bristling 
eyebrows  he  bent  cunning  green  eyes  upon  Riggs. 

"Say,  you!  Is  what  this  kid  says  so?" 

"Yes.  She's  Nell  Rayner's  sister,"  replied  Riggs,  dog- 
gedly. 

"A-huh!  Wai,  why  in  the  hell  did  you  drag  her  into 
my  camp  an'  off  up  here  to  signal  Beasley?  He  ain't 
wantin'  her.  He  wants  the  girl  who  owns  the  ranch.  Did 
you  take  one  fer  the  other — same  as  thet  day  we  was  with1 
you?" 

"Guess  I  must  have,"  replied  Riggs,  sullenly. 

"But  you  knowed  her  from  her  sister  afore  you  come 
to  my  camp?" 

Riggs  shook  his  head.  He  was  paler  now  and  sweating 
more  freely.  The  dank  hair  hung  wet  over  his  forehead. 
His  manner  was  that  of  a  man  suddenly  realizing  he  had 
gotten  into  a  tight  place. 

"  Oh,  he's  a  liar !"  exclaimed  Bo,  with  contemptuous  ring 
in  her  voice.  "He  comes  from  my  country.  He  has  known 
Nell  and  me  for  years." 

Snake  Anson  turned  to  look  at  Wilson. 

"Jim,  now  hyar's  a  queer  deal  this  feller  has  rung  in 
on  us.  I  thought  thet  kid  was  pretty  young.  Don't  you 
remember  Beasley  told  us  Nell  Rayner  was  a  handsome 
woman?" 

"Wai,  pard  Anson,  if  this  heah  gurl  ain't  handsome  my 
eyes  have  gone  pore,"  drawled  Wilson. 

"A-huh!  So  your  Texas  chilvaree  over  the  ladies  is 

284 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

some  operatin',"  retorted  Anson,  with  fine  sarcasm.  "But 
thet  ain't  tellin'  me  what  you  think?" 

"Wai,  I  ain't  tellin'  you  what  I  think  yet.  But  I  know 
thet  kid  ain't  Nell  Rayner.  For  I've  seen  her." 

Anson  studied  his  right-hand  man  for  a  moment,  then, 
taking  out  his  tobacco-pouch,  he  sat  himself  down  upon  a 
stone  and  proceeded  leisurely  to  roll  a  cigarette.  He  put 
it  between  his  thin  lips  and  apparently  forgot  to  light  it. 
For  a  few  moments  he  gazed  at  the  yellow  ground  and 
some  scant  sage-brush.  Riggs  took  to  pacing  up  and 
down.  Wilson  leaned  as  before  against  the  cedar.  The 
girl  slowly  recovered  from  her  excess  of  anger. 

"Kid,  see  hyar,"  said  Anson,  addressing  the  girl;  "if 
Riggs  knowed  you  wasn't  Nell  an'  fetched  you  along  any- 
how— what  'd  he  do  thet  fur?" 

"He  chased  me — caught  me.  Then  he  saw  some  one 
after  us  and  he  hurried  to  your  camp.  He  was  afraid — 
the  cur!" 

Riggs  heard  her  reply,  for  he  turned  a  malignant  glance 
upon  her. 

"Anson,  I  fetched  her  because  I  know  Nell  Rayner  will 
give  up  anythin'  on  earth  for  her,"  he  said,  in  loud  voice. 

Anson  pondered  this  statement  with  an  air  of  consider* 
ing  its  apparent  sincerity. 

"  Don't  you  believe  him,"  declared  Bo  Rayner,  bluntly, 
"  He's  a  liar.  He's  double-crossing  Beasley  and  all  of  you." 

Riggs  raised  a  shaking  hand  to  clench  it  at  her.  "Keep 
still  or  it  '11  be  the  worse  for  you." 

"Riggs,  shut  up  yourself,"  put  in  Anson,  as  he  leisurely 
rose.  "  Mebbe  it  'ain't  occurred  to  you  thet  she  might  have 
some  talk  interestin*  to  me.  An'  I'm  runnin'  this  hyar 
camp.  .  .  .  Now,  kid,  talk  up  an'  say  what  you  like." 

"  I  said  he  was  double-crossing  you  all,"  replied  the  girl, 
instantly.  "Why,  I'm  surprised  you'd  be  caught  in  his 
company!  My  uncle  Al  and  my  sweetheart  Ca  michael 
and  my  friend  Dale — they've  all  told  me  what  Western 
men  are,  even  down  to  outlaws,  robbers,  cutthroat  rascals 

285 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

like  you.  And  I  know  the  West  well  enough  now  to  be  sure 
that  four-flush  doesn't  belong  here  and  can't  last  here. 
He  went  to  Dodge  City  once  and  when  he  came  back  he 
made  a  bluff  at  being  a  bad  man.  He  was  a  swaggering, 
bragging,  drinking  gun-fighter.  He  talked  of  the  men 
he'd  shot,  of  the  fights  he'd  had.  He  dressed  like  some  of 
those  gun-throwing  gamblers.  .  .  .  He  was  in  love  with 
my  sister  Nell.  She  hated  him.  He  followed  us  out  West 
and  he  has  hung  on  our  actions  like  a  sneaking  Indian. 
Why,  Nell  and  I  couldn't  even  walk  to  the  store  in  the 
village.  He  rode  after  me  out  on  the  range — chased  me. 
,  .  .  For  that  Carmichael  called  Riggs's  bluff  down  in 
Turner's  saloon.  Dared  him  to  draw!  Cussed  him  every 
name  on  the  range!  Slapped  and  beat  and  kicked  him! 
Drove  him  out  of  Pine!  .  .  .  And  now,  whatever  he  has 
said  to  Bcasley  or  you,  it's  a  dead  sure  bet  he's  playing 
his  own  game.  That's  to  get  hold  of  Nell,  and  if  not  her — 
then  me!  .  .  .  Oh,  I'm  out  of  breath — and  I'm  out  of 
Aames  to  call  him.  If  I  talked  forever — I'd  never  be — able 
to — do  him  justice.  But  lend  me — a  gun — a  minute!" 

Jim  Wilson's  quiet  form  vibrated  with  a  start.  Anson 
with  his  admiring  smile  pulled  his  gun  and,  taking  a  couple 
of  steps  forward,  held  it  out  butt  first.  She  stretched 
eagerly  for  it  and  he  jerked  it  away. 

''Hold  on  there!"  yelled  Riggs,  in  alarm. 

"Damme,  Jim,  if  she  didn't  mean  biznessl"  exclaimed 
the  outlaw. 

"Wai,  now — see  heah,  Miss.  Would  you  bore  him — if 
you  hed  a  gun?"  inquired  Wilson,  with  curious  interest. 
There  was  more  of  respect  in  his  demeanor  than  admira- 
tion. 

"  No.  I  don't  want  his  cowardly  blood  on  my  hands/' 
replied  the  girl.  "But  I'd  make  him  dance — I'd  make 
him  run." 

"Shore  you  can  handle  a  gun?" 

She  nodded  her  answer  while  her  eyes  flashed  hate  and 
her  resolute  lips  twitched. 

286 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Then  Wilson  made  a  singularly  swift  motion  and  his 
gun  was  pitched  butt  first  to  within  a  foot  of  her  hand. 
She  snatched  it  up,  cocked  it,  aimed  it,  all  before  Anson 
could  move.  But  he  yelled: 

"Drop  thet  gun,  you  little  devil!" 

Riggs  turned  ghastly  as  the  big  blue  gun  lined  on  him. 
He  also  yelled,  but  that  yell  was  different  from  Anson's. 

"Run  or  dance!"  cried  the  girl. 

The  big  gun  boomed  and  leaped  almost  out  of  her  hand. 
She  took  both  hands,  and  called  derisively  as  she  fired 
again.  The  second  bullet  hit  at  Riggs's  feet,  scattering 
the  dust  and  fragments  of  stone  all  over  him.  He  bounded 
here  —  there  —  then  darted  for  the  rocks.  A  third  time  the 
heavy  gun  spoke  and  this  bullet  must  have  ticked  Riggs, 
for  he  let  out  a  hoarse  bawl  and  leaped  sheer  for  the  pro- 
tection of  a  rock. 

"Plug  him!  Shoot  off  a  leg!"  yelled  Snake  Anson, 
whooping  and  stamping,  as  Riggs  got  out  of  sight. 

Jim  Wilson  watched  the  whole  performance  with  the 
same  quietness  that  had  characterized  his  manner  toward 
the  girl.  Then,  as  Riggs  disappeared,  Wilson  stepped 
forward  and  took  the  gun  from  the  girl's  trembling  hands. 
She  was  whiter  than  ever,  but  still  resolute  and  defiant. 
Wilson  took  a  glance  over  in  the  direction  Riggs  had 
hidden  and  then  proceeded  to  reload  the  gun.  Snake 
Anson's  roar  of  laughter  ceased  rather  suddenly. 

"Hyar,  Jim,  she  might  have  held  up  the  whole  gang 
with  thet  gun,"  he  protested. 

"I  reckon  she  'ain't  nothin*  ag'in'  us,"  replied  Wilson. 

"A-huh!  You  know  a  lot  about  wirnmen  now,  don't 
you?  But  thet  did  my  heart  good.  Jim,  what  'n  earth 
would  you  have  did  if  thet  'd  been  you  instead  of 


The  query  seemed  important  and  amazing.  Wilson 
pondered. 

"Shore  I'd  stood  there  —  stock-still  —  an'  never  moved 
an  eye-  winker." 

2&7 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"Arf  let  her  shoot!"  ejaculated  Anson,  nodding  his 
longhead.  "Me,  too!" 

So  these  rough  outlaws,  inured  to  all  the  violence  and 
baseness  of  their  dishonest  calling,  rose  to  the  challenging 
courage  of  a  slip  of  a  girl.  She  had  the  one  thing  they 
respected — nerve. 

Just  then  a  halloo  from  the  promontory  brought  Anson 
up  with  a  start.  Muttering  to  himself,  he  strode  out 
toward  the  jagged  rocks  that  hid  the  outlook.  Moze 
shuffled  his  burly  form  after  Anson. 

"Miss,  it  shore  was  grand — thet  performance  of  Mister 
Gunman  Riggs,"  remarked  Jim  Wilson,  attentively  study- 
ing the  girl. 

"Much  obliged  to  you  for  lending  me  your  gun,"  she 
replied.  "I— I  hope  I  hit  him— a  little." 

"Wai,  if  you  didn't  sting  him,  then  Jim  Wilson  knows 
nothin'  about  lead." 

"Jim  Wilson?  Are  you  the  man — the  outlaw  my  uncle 
Alknew?" 

"Reckon  I  am,  miss.  Per  I  knowed  Al  shore  enough. 
What  'd  he  say  aboot  me?" 

"I  remember  once  he  was  telling  me  about  Snake  An- 
son's  gang.  He  mentioned  you.  Said  you  were  a  real 
gun-fighter.  And  what  a  shame  it  was  you  had  to  be  an 
outlaw." 

"Wai!  An*  so  old  Al  spoke  thet  nice  of  me.  .  .  .  It's 
tolerable  likely  I'll  remember.  An'  now,  miss,  can  I  do 
anythin'  for  you?" 

Swift  as  a  flash  she  looked  at  him. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Wai,  shore  I  don't  mean  much,  I'm  sorry  to  say. 
Nothin'  to  make  you  look  like  thet.  ...  I  hev  to  be  an 
outlaw,  shore  as  you're  born.  But — mebbe  there's  a  dif- 
ference in  outlaws." 

She  understood  him  and  paid  him  the  compliment  not 
to  voice  her  sudden  upflashing  hope  that  he  might  be  one 
to  betray  his  leader. 

288 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"  Please  take  this  rope  off  my  feet.  Let  me  walk  a  little. 
Let  me  have  a — a  little  privacy.  That  fool  watched  every 
move  I  made.  I  promise  not  to  run  away.  And,  oh! 
I'm  thirsty." 

"  Shore  you've  got  sense."  He  freed  her  feet  and  helped 
her  get  up.  "There'll  be  some  fresh  water  any  minit 
now,  if  you'll  wait." 

Then  he  turned  his  back  and  walked  over  to  where 
Riggs  sat  nursing  a  bullet-burn  on  his  leg. 

"Say,  Riggs,  I'm  takin'  the  responsibility  of  loosin'  the 
girl  for  a  little  spell.  She  can't  get  away.  An'  there 
ain't  any  sense  in  bein'  mean." 

Riggs  made  no  reply,  and  went  on  rolling  down  his 
trousers  leg,  tapped  a  fold  over  at  the  bottom  and  pulled 
on  his  boot.  Then  he  strode  out  toward  the  promontory. 
Half-way  there  he  encountered  Anson  tramping  back. 

"Beasley's  comin'  one  way  an'  Shady 's  comin'  another. 
We'll  be  off  this  hot  point  of  rock  by  noon,"  said  the  out- 
law leader. 

Riggs  went  on  to  the  promontory  to  look  for  himself. 

"Where's  the  girl?"  demanded  Anson,  in  surprise,  when 
he  got  back  to  the  camp. 

"Wai,  she's  walkin'  'round  between  heah  an*  Pine," 
drawled  Wilson. 

"Jim,  you  let  her  loose?" 

''Shore  I  did.  She's  been  hawg-tied  all  the  time.  An* 
she  said  she'd  not  run  off.  I'd  take  thet  girl's  word  even 
to  a  sheep-thief." 

"A-huhi  So  would  I,  for  all  of  thet.  But,  Jim,  some- 
thin's  workin'  in  you.  Ain't  you  sort  of  rememberin'  a 
time  when  you  was  young — an'  mebbe  knowed  pretty 
kids  like  this  one?" 

"Wai,  if  I  am  it  11  shore  turn  out  bad  fer  somebody." 

Anson  gave  him  a  surprised  stare  and  suddenly  lost  the 
bantering  tone. 

"A-huh!  So  thet's  how  it's  workin',"  he  replied,  and 
flung  himself  down  in  the  shade. 

280 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

Young  Burt  made  his  appearance  then,  wiping  his  sal« 
Sow  face.  His  deep-set,  hungry  eyes,  upon  which  his  com- 
fades  set  such  store,  roved  around  the  camp. 

"Whar's  the  gurl?"  he  queried. 

"Jim  let  her  go  out  fer  a  stroll, "  replied  Anson. 

"I  seen  Jim  was  gittin'  softy  over  her.  Haw!  Haw! 
Haw!" 

But  Snake  Anson  did  not  crack  a  smile.  The  atmos- 
phere appeared  not  to  be  congenial  for  jokes,  a  fact  Burt 
rather  suddenly  divined.  Riggs  and  Moze  returned  from 
the  promontory,  the  latter  reporting  that  Shady  Jcnes 
was  riding  up  close.  Then  the  girl  walked  slowly  into 
sight  and  approached  to  find  a  seat  within  ten  yards  of 
the  group.  They  waited  in  silence  until  the  expected 
horseman  rode  up  with  water-bottles  slung  on  both  sides 
of  his  saddle.  His  advent  was  welcome.  All  the  men 
were  thirsty.  Wilson  took  water  to  the  girl  before  drink- 
ing himself. 

"Thet's  an  all-fired  hot  ride  fer  water,"  declared  the 
outlaw  Shady,  who  somehow  fitted  his  name  in  color  and 
impression.  "An',  boss,  if  it's  the  same  to  you  I  won't 
take  it  ag'in." 

"  Cheer  up,  Shady.  We'll  be  rustlin*  back  in  the  moun* 
tains  before  sundown,"  said  Anson. 

"Hang  me  if  that  ain't  the  cheerfulest  news  I've  hed  ID' 
some  days.  Hey,  Moze?" 

The  black-faced  Moze  nodded  his  shaggy  head. 

"I'm  sick  an'  sore  of  this  deal,"  broke  out  Burt,  evi- 
dently encouraged  by  his  elders.  ' '  Ever  since  last  fall  we've 
been  hangin'  'round — till  jest  lately  freezin'  in  camps — no 
money — no  drink — no  grub  wuth  havin ' .  All  on  promises ! ' ' 

Not  improbably  this  young  and  reckless  member  of  the 
gang  had  struck  the  note  of  discord.  Wilson  seemed  most 
detached  from  any  sentiment  prevailing  there.  Some 
strong  thoughts  were  revolving  in  his  brain. 

"Burt,  you  ain't  insinuatin'  thet  I  made  promises?'* 
inquired  Anson,  onrnously. 

290 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

11  No,  boss,  I  ain't.  You  allus  said  we  might  hit  it  rich. 
But  them  promises  was  made  to  you.  An'  it  'd  be  jest 
like  thet  greaser  to  go  back  on  his  word  now  we  got  the 
gurl." 

"Son,  it  happens  we  got  the  wrong  one.  Our  long- 
haired pard  hyar — Mister  Riggs — him  with  the  big  gun 
—he  waltzes  up  with  this  sassy  kid  instead  of  the  woman 
Beasley  wanted." 

Burt  snorted  his  disgust  while  Shady  Jones,  roundly 
swearing,  pelted  the  smoldering  camp-fire  with  stones. 
Then  they  all  lapsed  into  surly  silence.  The  ob;ect  of 
their  growing  scorn,  Riggs,  sat  a  little  way  apart,  facing 
none  of  them,  but  maintaining  as  bold  a  front  as  appar- 
ently he  could  muster. 

Presently  a  horse  shot  up  his  ears,  the  first  indication 
of  scent  or  sound  imperceptible  to  the  men.  But  with 
this  cue  they  all,  except  Wilson,  sat  up  attentively.  Soon 
the  crack  of  iron-shod  hoofs  on  stone  broke  the  silence. 
Riggs  nervously  rose  to  his  feet.  And  the  others,  still 
excepting  Wilson,  one  by  one  followed  suit.  In  another 
moment  a  rangy  bay  horse  trotted  out  of  the  cedars,  up 
to  the  camp,  and  his  rider  jumped  off  nimbly  for  so  heavy 
a  man. 

"Howdy,  Beasley?"  was  Anson's  greeting. 

"Hello,  Snake,  old  man!"  replied  Beasley,  as  his  bold, 
snapping  black  eyes  swept  the  group.  He  was  dusty  and 
hot,  and  wet  with  sweat,  yet  evidently  too  excited  to  feel 
discomfort.  "I  seen  your  smoke  signal  first  off  an* 
jumped  my  hoss  quick.  But  I  rode  north  of  Pine  before 
T  headed  'round  this  way.  Did  you  corral  the  girl  or  did 
Riggs?  Say! — you  look  queer!  .  .  .  What's  wrong  here? 
You  haven't  signaled  me  for  nothin'?" 

Snake  Anson  beckoned  to  Bo. 

"  Come  out  of  the  shade.     Let  him  look  you  over." 

The  girl  walked  out  from  under  the  spreading  cedar 
that  had  hidden  her  from  sight. 

Beasley  stared  aghast — his  jaw  dropped. 

291 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Thet's  the  kid  sister  of  the  woman  I  wanted!"  he 
ejaculated. 

"So  we've  jest  been  told." 

Astonishment  still  held  Beasley. 

"Told?"  he  echoed.  Suddenly  his  big  body  leaped 
with  a  start.  "Who  got  her?  Who  fetched  her?" 

"Why,  Mister  Gunman  Riggs  hyar,"  replied  Anson, 
with  a  subtle  scorn. 

"Riggs,  you  got  the  wrong  girl,"  shouted  Beasley. 
"You  made  thet  mistake  once  before.  What  're  you 
up  to?" 

"  I  chased  her  an'  when  I  got  her,  seein'  it  wasn't  Nell 
Rayner — why — I  kept  her,  anyhow,"  replied  Riggs.  "An* 
I've  got  a  word  for  your  ear  alone." 

'Man,  you're  crazy — queerin'  my  deal  thet  way!" 
roared  Beasley.  "You  heard  my  plans.  .  .  .  Riggs,  this 
girl-stealin'  can't  be  done  twice.  Was  you  drinkin'  or 
locoed  or  what?" 

"Beasley,  he  was  giving  you  the  double-cross,"  cut  in 
Bo  Rayner 's  cool  voice. 

The  rancher  stared  speechlessly  at  her,  then  at  Anson, 
then  at  Wilson,  and  last  at  Riggs,  when  his  brown  visage 
shaded  dark  with  rush  of  purple  blood.  With  one  lunge 
he  knocked  Riggs  flat,  then  stood  over  him  with  a  con- 
vulsive hand  at  his  gun. 

"You  white-livered  card-sharp!  I've  a  notion  to  bore 
you. . . .  They  told  me  you  had  a  deal  of  your  own,  an'  now 
I  believe  it." 

"Yes — I  had,"  replied  Riggs,  cautiously  getting  up. 
He  was  ghastly.  "But  I  wasn't  double-crossin'  you. 
Your  deal  was  to  get  the  girl  away  from  home  so  you 
could  take  possession  of  her  property.  An'  I  wanted 
her." 

"What  for  did  you  fetch  the  sister,  then?"  demanded 
Beasley,  his  big  jaw  bulging. 

"Because  I've  a  plan  to — " 

"Plan  hell!    You've  spoiled  my  plan  an*  I've  seen 

292 


THE  MAN  OF  'iHE  FOREST 

about  enough  of  you."  Beasley  breathed  hard;  his 
lowering  gaze  boded  an  uncertain  will  toward  the  man 
who  had  crossed  him;  his  hand  still  hung  low  and 
clutching. 

"Beasley,  tell  them  to  get  my  horse.  I  want  to  go 
home/'  said  Bo  Rayner. 

Slowly  Beasley  turned.  Her  words  enjoined  a  silence. 
What  to  do  with  her  now  appeared  a  problem. 

"  I  had  nothin'  to  do  with  fetchin'  you  here  an'  I'll  have 
nothin'  to  do  with  sendin'  you  back  or  whatever's  done 
with  you,"  declared  Beasley. 

Then  the  girl's  face  flashed  white  again  and  her  eyes 
changed  to  fire. 

"You're  as  big  a  liar  as  Riggs,"  she  cried,  passionately. 
"And  you're  a  thief,  a  bully  who  picks  on  defenseless 
girls.  Oh,  we  know  your  game!  Milt  Dale  heard  your 
plot  with  this  outlaw  Anson  to  steal  my  sister.  You 
ought  to  be  hanged — you  half-breed  greaser!" 

"I'll  cut  out  your  tongue!"  hissed  Beasley. 

"Yes,  I'll  bet  you  would  if  you  had  me  alone.  But 
these  outlaws — these  sheep-thieves — these  tools  you  hire 
are  better  than  you  and  Riggs.  .  .  .  What  do  you  suppose 
Carmichael  will  do  to  you  ?  Carmichael !  He's  my  sweet- 
heart— that  cowboy.  You  know  what  he  did  to  Riggs. 
Have  you  brains  enough  to  know  what  he'll  do  to  you?" 

"He'll  not  do  much,"  growled  Beasley.  But  the  thick 
purplish  blood  was  receding  from  his  face.  "Your  cow- 
puncher —  " 

"Bah!"  she  interrupted,  and  she  snapped  her  fingers  in 
his  face.  "He's  from  Texas!  He's  from  Texas!11 

"Supposin'  he  is  from  Texas?"  demanded  Beasley,  in 
angry  irritation.  "What's  thet?  Texans  are  all  over. 
There's  Jim  Wilson,  Snake  Anson's  right-hand  man.  He's 
from  Texas.  But  thet  ain't  scarin'  any  one." 

He  pointed  toward  Wilson,  who  shifted  uneasily  from 
foot  to  foot.  The  girl's  flaming  glance  followed  his  hand. 

"Are  you  from  Texas?"  she  asked. 

293 


THE  M4N  OF  THE  FOREST 

"Yes,  Miss,  I  am — an'  I  reckon  I  don't  deserve  it," 
replied  Wilson.  It  was  certain  that  a  vague  shame  at- 
tended his  confession. 

"Oh!  I  believed  even  a  bandit  from  Texas  would 
fight  for  a  helpless  girl!"  she  replied,  in  withering  scorn  of 
disappointment. 

Jim  Wilson  dropped  his  head.  If  any  one  there  sus- 
pected a  serious  turn  to  Wilson's  attitude  toward  that 
situation  it  was  the  keen  outlaw  leader. 

"Beasley,  you're  courtin'  death,"  he  broke  in. 

"You  bet  you  are!"  added  Bo,  with  a  passion  that  made 
her  listeners  quiver.  "You've  put  me  at  the  mercy  of  a 
gang  of  outlaws !  You  may  force  my  sister  out  of  her  home ! 
But  your  day  will  come:  Tom  Carmichael  will  kill  you." 

Beasley  mounted  his  horse.  Sullen,  livid,  furious,  he  sat 
shaking  in  the  saddle,  to  glare  down  at  the  outlaw  leader. 

"Snake,  thet's  no  fault  of  mine  the  deal's  miscarried. 
I  was  square.  I  made  my  offer  for  the  workin'  out  of  my 
plan.  It  'ain't  been  done.  Now  there's  hell  to  pay  an* 
I'm  through." 

"Beasley,  I  reckon  I  couldn't  hold  you  to  anythin'," 
replied  Anson,  slowly.  "But  if  you  was  square  you  ain't 
square  now.  We've  hung  around  an'  tried  hard.  My  men 
are  all  sore.  An'  we're  broke,  with  no  outfit  to  speak  of. 
Me  an'  you  never  fell  out  before.  But  I  reckon  we  might." 

"Do  I  owe  you  any  money — accordin'  to  the  deal?" 
demanded  Beasley. 

"No,  you  don't,"  responded  Anson,  sharply. 

"Then  thet's  square.  I  wash  my  hands  of  the  whole 
deal.  Make  Riggs  pay  up.  He's  got  money  an'  he's  got 
plans.  Go  in  with  him." 

With  that  Beasley  spurred  his  horse,  wheeled  and  rode 
away.  The  outlaws  gazed  after  him  until  he  disappeared 
in  the  cedars. 

"What  'd  you  expect  from  a  greaser?"  queried  Shady 
Jones. 

"Anson,  didn't  I  say  so?"  added  Burt. 

204, 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

The  black-visaged  Moze  rolled  his  eyes  like  a  mad  bull 
and  Jim  Wilson  studiously  examined  a  stick  he  held  in 
his  hands.  Riggs  showed  immense  relief. 

"  Anson,  stake  me  to  some  of  your  outfit  anf  I'll  ride  off 
with  the  girl,"  he  said,  eagerly. 

"Where  'd  you  go  now?"  queried  Anson,  curiously. 

Riggs  appeared  at  a  loss  for  a  quick  answer;  his  wits 
were  no  more  equal  to  this  predicament  than  his  nerve. 

"You're  no  woodsman.  An'  onless  you're  plumb  locoed 
you'd  never  risk  goin'  near  Pine  or  Show  Down.  There'll 
be  real  trackers  huntin'  your  trail." 

The  listening  girl  suddenly  appealed  to  Wilson. 

"Don't  let  him  take  me  off — alone — in  the  woods!"  she 
faltered.  That  was  the  first  indication  of  her  weakening 

Jim  Wilson  broke  into  gruff  reply.  "I'm  not  bossin* 
this  gang." 

"But  you're  a  man!"  she  importuned. 

"Riggs,  you  fetch  along  your  precious  firebrand  an* 
come  with  us,"  said  Anson,  craftily.  "I'm  particular  curi- 
ous to  see  her  brand  you." 

"Snake,  lemme  take  the  girl  back  to  Pine,"  said  Jim 
Wilson. 

Anson  swore  his  amaze. 

"It's  sense,"  continued  Wilson.  "We've  shore  got  our 
own  troubles,  an'  keepin'  her  '11  only  add  to  them.  I've 
a  hunch.  Now  you  know  I  ain't  often  givin'  to  buckin* 
your  say-so.  But  this  deal  ain't  tastin'  good  to  me.  Thet 
girl  ought  to  be  sent  home." 

"  But  mebbe  there's  somethin'  in  it  for  us.  Her  sister  'd 
pay  to  git  her  back." 

"Wai,  I  shore  hope  you'll  recollect  I  offered — thet's 
all,"  concluded  Wilson. 

"Jim,  if  we  wanted  to  git  rid  of  her  we'd  let  Riggs  take 
her  off,"  remonstrated  the  outlaw  leader.  He  was  per- 
turbed and  undecided.  Wilson  worried  him. 

The  long  Texan  veered  around  full  faced.  What  subtle 
transformation  in  him ! 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Like  hell  we  would!"  he  said. 

It  could  not  have  been  the  tone  that  caused  Anson  to 
quail.  He  might  have  been  leader  here,  but  he  was  not 
the  greater  man.  His  face  clouded. 

"Break  camp,"  he  ordered. 

Riggs  had  probably  not  heard  that  last  exchange  be- 
tween Anson  and  Wilson,  for  he  had  walked  a  few  rods 
aside  to  get  his  horse. 

In  a  few  moments  when  they  started  off,  Burt,  Jones, 
and  Moze  were  in  the  lead  driving  the  pack-horses, 
Anson  rode  next,  the  girl  came  between  him  and  Riggs, 
and  significantly,  it  seemed,  Jim  Wilson  brought  up  the 
rear. 

This  start  was  made  a  little  after  the  noon  hour.  They 
zigzagged  up  the  slope,  took  to  a  deep  ravine,  and  followed 
it  up  to  where  it  headed  in  the  level  forest.  From  there 
travel  was  rapid,  the  pack-horses  being  driven  at  a  jog- 
trot. Once  when  a  troop  of  deer  burst  out  of  a  thicket  into 
a  glade,  to  stand  with  ears  high,  young  Burt  halted  the 
cavalcade.  His  well-aimed  shot  brought  down  a  deer. 
Then  the  men  rode  on,  leaving  him  behind  to  dress  and 
pack  the  meat.  The  only  other  halt  made  was  at  the  cross- 
ing of  the  first  water,  a  clear,  swift  brook,  where  both 
horses  and  men  drank  thirstily.  Here  Burt  caught  up 
with  his  comrades. 

They  traversed  glade  and  park,  and  wended  a  crooked 
trail  through  the  deepening  forest,  and  climbed,  bench 
after  bench,  to  higher  ground,  while  the  sun  sloped  to 
the  westward,  lower  and  redder.  Sunset  had  gone,  and 
twilight  was  momentarily  brightening  to  the  afterglow 
when  Anson,  breaking  his  silence  of  the  afternoon,  ordered 
a  halt. 

The  place  was  wild,  dismal,  a  shallow  vale  between 
dark  slopes  of  spruce.  Grass,  fire-wood,  and  water  were 
there  ki  abundance.  All  the  men  were  off,  throwing  sad- 
dles and  packs,  before  the  tired  girl  made  an  effort  to  get 
<own.  Riggs,  observing  her,  made  a  not  ungentle  move 

296 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

to  pull  her  off.  She  gave  him  a  sounding  slap  with  her 
gloved  hand. 

"Keep  your  paws  to  yourself,"  she  said.  No  evidence  of 
exhaustion  was  there  in  her  spirit. 

Wilson  had  observed  this  by-play,  but  Anson  had  not. 

"What  come  off?"  he  asked. 

"Wai,  the  Honorable  Gunman  Riggs  jest  got  caressed 
by  the  lady — as  he  was  doin'  the  elegant,"  replied  Moze, 
who  stood  nearest. 

"Jim,  was  you  watchin'?"  queried  Anson.  His  curiosity 
had  held  through  the  afternoon. 

"He  tried  to  yank  her  off  an'  she  biffed  him,"  replied 
Wilson. 

"That  Riggs  is  jest  daffy  or  plain  locoed,"  said  Snake, 
in  an  aside  to  Moze. 

"Boss,  you  mean  plain  cussed.  Mark  my  words,  he'll 
hoodoo  this  outfit.  Jim  was  figgerin'  correct." 

"Hoodoo — "  cursed  Anson,  under  his  breath. 

Many  hands  made  quick  work.  In  a  few  moments  a 
fire  was  burning  brightly,  water  was  boiling,  pots  were 
steaming,  the  odor  of  venison  permeated  the  cool  air. 
The  girl  had  at  last  slipped  off  her  saddle  to  the 
ground,  where  she  sat  while  Riggs  led  the  horse  away. 
She  sat  there  apparently  forgotten,  a  pathetic  droop  to 
her  head. 

Wilson  had  taken  an  ax  and  was  vigorously  wielding  it 
among  the  spruces.  One  by  one  they  fell  with  swish  and 
soft  crash.  Then  the  sliding  ring  of  the  ax  told  how  he 
was  slicing  off  the  branches  with  long  sweeps.  Presently 
he  appeared  in  the  semi-darkness,  dragging  half -trimmed 
spruces  behind  him.  He  made  several  trips,  the  last  of 
which  was  to  stagger  under  a  huge  burden  of  spruce 
boughs.  These  he  spread  under  a  low,  projecting  branch 
of  an  aspen.  Then  he  leaned  the  bushy  spruces  slantingly 
against  this  branch  on  both  sides,  quickly  improvising  a 
V-shaped  shelter  with  narrow  aperture  in  front.  Next 
from  one  of  the  packs  he  took  a  blanket  and  threw  that 
20  297 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

inside  the  shelter.  Then,  touching  the  girl  on  the  shoulder, 
he  whispered : 

"When  you're  ready,  slip  in  there.  An'  don't  lose  no 
sleep  by  worryin',  fer  I'll  be  layin'  right  here." 

He  made  a  motion  to  indicate  his  length  across  the  front 
of  the  narrow  aperture. 

"Oh,  thank  you!  Maybe  you  really  are  a  Texan,"  she 
whispered  back. 

"Mebbe,"  was  his  gloomy  reply. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  girl  refused  to  take  food  proffered  her  by  Riggs, 
but  she  ate  and  drank  a  little  that  Wilson  brought 
her,  then  she  disappeared  in  the  spruce  lean-to. 

Whatever  loquacity  and  companionship  had  previously 
existed  in  Snake  Anson's  gang  were  not  manifest  in  this 
camp.  Each  man  seemed  preoccupied,  as  if  pondering  the 
dawn  in  his  mind  of  an  ill  omen  not  clear  to  him  yet  and 
not  yet  dreamed  of  by  his  fellows.  They  all  smoked.  Then 
Moze  and  Shady  played  cards  awhile  by  the  light  of  the 
fire,  but  it  was  a  dull  game,  in  which  either  seldom  spoke. 
Riggs  sought  his  blanket  first,  and  the  fact  was  significant 
that  he  lay  down  some  distance  from  the  spruce  shelter 
which  contained  Bo  Rayner.  Presently  young  Burt  went 
off  grumbling  to  his  bed.  And  not  long  afterward  the  card- 
players  did  likewise. 

Snake  Anson  and  Jim  Wilson  were  left  brooding  in 
silence  beside  the  dying  camp-fire. 

The  night  was  dark,  with  only  a  few  stars  showing.  A 
fitful  wind  moaned  unearthly  through  the  spruce.  An 
occasional  thump  of  hoof  sounded  from  the  dark  woods. 
No  cry  of  wolf  or  coyote  or  cat  gave  reality  to  the  wildness 
of  forest-land. 

By  and  by  those  men  who  had  rolled  in  their  blankets 
were  breathing  deep  and  slow  in  heavy  slumber. 

"Jim,  I  take  it  this  hyar  Riggs  has  queered  our  deal,r 
said  Snake  Anson,  in  low  voice. 

"I  reckon,"  replied  Wilson. 

"An*  I'm  feared  he's  queered  this  hyar  White  Mountain 
country  fer  us." 

209 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"  Shore  I  'ain't  got  so  far  as  thet.    What  d'  ye  mean 
Snake?" 

"Damme  if  I  savvy,"  was  the  gloomy  reply.  "I  only 
know  what  was  bad  looks  growin'  wuss.  Last  fall — an' 
winter — an'  now  it's  near  April.  We've  got  no  outfit  to 
make  a  long  stand  in  the  woods.  .  .  .  Jim,  jest  how  strong 
is  thet  Beasley  down  in  the  settlements?" 

"I've  a  hunch  he  ain't  half  as  strong  as  he  bluffs." 

41  Me,  too.  I  got  thet  idee  yesterday.  He  was  scared  of 
the  kid — when  she  fired  up  an'  sent  thet  hot-shot  about 
her  cowboy  sweetheart  killin'  him.  Hell  do  it,  Jim.  I 
seen  that  Carmichael  at  Magdalena  some  years  ago.  Then 
he  was  only  a  youngster.  But,  whew!  Mebbe  he  wasn't 
bad  after  toyin'  with  a  little  red  liquor." 

"Shore.    He  was  from  Texas,  she  said." 

"Jim,  I  savvied  your  feelin's  was  hurt — by  thet  talk 
about  Texas — an'  when  she  up  an'  asked  you." 

Wilson  had  no  rejoinder  for  this  remark. 

"Wai,  Lord  knows,  I  ain't  wonderin'.  You  wasn't  a 
hunted  outlaw  all  your  life.  An'  neither  was  I.  ...  Wil- 
son, I  never  was  keen  on  this  girl  deal — now,  was  I?" 

"I  reckon  it's  honest  to  say  no  to  thet,"  replied  Wilson. 
"But  it's  done.  Beasley  '11  get  plugged  sooner  or  later. 
Thet  won't  help  us  any.  Chasin'  sheep-herders  out  of  the 
country  an'  stealin'  sheep — thet  ain't  stealin'  gurls  by  a 
long  sight.  Beasley  '11  blame  that  on  us,  an'  be  greaser 
enough  to  send  some  of  his  men  out  to  hunt  us.  For  Pine 
an'  Show  Down  won't  stand  thet  long.  There's  them 
Mormons.  They'll  be  hell  when  they  wake  up.  Suppose 
Carmichael  got  thet  hunter  Dale  an'  them  hawk-eyed 
Beemans  on  our  trail?" 

"Wai,  we'd  cash  in — quick,"  replied  Anson,  gruffly. 

"  Then  why  didn't  you  let  me  take  the  gurl  back  home?" 

"Wai,  come  to  think  of  thet,  Jim,  I'm  sore,  an'  I  need 
jnoney — an'  I  knowed  you'd  never  take  a  dollar  from  her 
sister.  An'  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  git  somethin'  out  of 

her." 

300 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Snake,  you're  no  fool.  How'll  you  do  thet  same  an* 
floit  quick?" 

"  'Ain't  reckoned  it  out  yet." 

"Wai,  you  got  aboot  to-morrer  an'  thet's  all,"  returned 
Wilson,  gloomily. 

"Jim,  what's  ailin'  you?" 

"I'll  let  you  figger  thet  out." 

"Wai,  somethin'  ails  the  whole  gang,"  declared  Anson, 
savagely.  "With  them  it's  nothin'  to  eat — no  whisky — 
no  money  to  bet  with — no  tobacco!  .  .  .  But  thet's  not 
what's  ailin'  you,  Jim  Wilson,  nor  me!" 

"Wai,  what  is,  then?"  queried  Wilson 

"With  me  it's  a  strange  feelin'  thet  my  day's  over  on 
these  ranges.  I  can't  explain,  but  it  jest  feels  so.  Some- 
thin'  in  the  air.  I  don't  like  them  dark  shadows  out  there 
under  the  spruces.  Savvy?  .  .  .  An'  as  fer  you,  Jim — • 
wal,  you  allus  was  half  decent,  an'  my  gang's  got  too  low- 
down  fer  you." 

"Snake,  did  I  ever  fail  you?" 

"No,  you  never  did.  You're  the  best  pard  I  ever 
knowed.  In  the  years  we've  rustled  together  we  never 
had  a  contrary  word  till  I  let  Beasley  fill  my  ears  with 
his  promises.  Thet's  my  fault.  But,  Jim,  it's  too  late." 

"It  mightn't  have  been  too  late  yesterday." 

"Mebbe  not.  But  it  is  now,  an'  I'll  hang  on  to  the  girl 
or  git  her  worth  in  gold,"  declared  the  outlaw,  grimly. 

"Snake,  I've  seen  stronger  gangs  than  yours  come  an' 
go.  Them  Big  Bend  gangs  in  my  country — them  rustlers 
— they  were  all  bad  men.  You  have  no  likes  of  them 
gangs  out  heah.  If  they  didn't  get  wiped  out  by  Rangers 
or  cowboys,  why  they  jest  naturally  wiped  out  themselves, 
Thet's  a  law  I  recognize  in  relation  to  gangs  like  them. 
An'  as  for  yours — why,  Anson,  it  wouldn't  hold  water 
against  one  real  gun-slinger." 

"  A-huh!  Then  if  we  run  up  ag'in'  Carmichael  or  some 
such  fellar — would  you  be  suckin'  your  finger  like  a 
baby?" 

301 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"Wai,  I  wasn't  takin'  count  of  myself.  I  was  takin* 
generalities." 

"Aw,  what  'n  hell  are  them?"  asked  Anson,  disgustedly. 
"Jim,  I  know  as  well  as  you  thet  this  hyar  gang  is  hard 
put.  We're  goin'  to  be  trailed  an'  chased.  We've  got 
to  hide — be  on  the  go  all  the  time — here  an'  there — all 
over,  in  the  roughest  woods.  An'  wait  our  chance  to 
work  south." 

"Shore.  But,  Snake,  you  ain't  takin'  no  count  of  the 
feelin's  of  the  men — an'  of  mine  an'  yours.  .  .  .  I'll  bet  you 
my  hoss  thet  in  a  day  or  so  this  gang  will  go  to  pieces." 

"I'm  feared  you  spoke  what's  been  crowdin'  to  git  in 
my  mind,"  replied  Anson.  Then  he  threw  up  his  hands 
in  a  strange  gesture  of  resignation.  The  outlaw  was 
brave,  but  all  men  of  the  wilds  recognized  a  force  stronger 
than  themselves.  He  sat  there  resembling  a  brooding 
snake  with  basilisk  eyes  upon  the  fire.  At  length  he  arose, 
and  without  another  word  to  his  comrade  he  walked 
wearily  to  where  lay  the  dark,  quiet  forms  of  the  sleepers. 

Jim  Wilson  remained  beside  the  flickering  fire.  He  was 
reading  something  in  the  red  embers,  perhaps  the  past. 
Shadows  were  on  his  face,  not  all  from  the  fading  flames 
or  the  towering  spruces.  Ever  and  anon  he  raised  his 
head  to  listen,  not  apparently  that  he  expected  any  un- 
usual sound,  but  as  if  involuntarily.  Indeed,  as  Anson 
had  said,  there  was  something  nameless  in  the  air.  The 
black  forest  breathed  heavily,  in  fitful  moans  of  wind. 
It  had  its  secrets.  The  glances  Wilson  threw  on  all 
sides  betrayed  that  any  hunted  man  did  not  love  the  dark 
night,  though  it  hid  him.  Wilson  seemed  fascinated  by 
the  life  inclosed  there  by  the  black  circle  of  spruce.  He 
might  have  been  reflecting  on  the  strange  reaction  hap- 
pening to  every  man  in  that  group,  since  a  girl  had  been 
brought  among  them.  Nothing  was  clear,  however;  the 
forest  kept  its  secret,  as  did  the  melancholy  wind;  the 
outlaws  were  sleeping  like  tired  beasts,  with  their  dark 
secrets  locked  in  their  hearts. 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

After  a  while  Wilson  put  some  sticks  on  the  red  embers, 
then  pulled  the  end  of  a  log  over  them.  A  blaze  sput- 
tered up,  changing  the  dark  circle  and  showing  the 
sleepers  with  their  set,  shadowed  faces  upturned.  Wilson 
gazed  on  all  of  them,  a  sardonic  smile  on  his  lips,  and  then 
his  look  fixed  upon  the  sleeper  apart  from  the  others — 
Riggs.  It  might  have  been  the  false  light  of  flame  and 
shadow  that  created  Wilson's  expression  of  dark  and 
terrible  hate.  Or  it  might  have  been  the  truth,  expressed 
in  that  lonely,  unguarded  hour,  from  the  depths  of  a  man 
born  in  the  South — a  man  who  by  his  inheritance  of  race 
had  reverence  for  all  womanhood — by  whose  strange, 
wild,  outlawed  bloody  life  of  a  gun-fighter  he  must  hate 
with  the  deadliest  hate  this  type  that  aped  and  mocked 
his  fame. 

It  was  a  long  gaze  Wilson  rested  upon  Riggs — as  strange 
and  secretive  as  the  forest  wind  moaning  down  the  great 
aisles — and  when  that  dark  gaze  was  withdrawn  Wilson 
stalked  away  to  make  his  bed  with  the  stride  of  one  in 
whom  spirit  had  liberated  force. 

He  laid  his  saddle  in  front  of  the  spruce  shelter  where 
the  girl  had  entered,  and  his  tarpaulin  and  blankets  like- 
wise, and  then  wearily  stretched  his  long  length  to  rest. 

The  camp-fire  blazed  up,  showing  the  exquisite  green 
and  brown-flecked  festooning  of  the  spruce  branches, 
symmetrical  and  perfect,  yet  so  irregular,  and  then  it 
burned  out  and  died  down,  leaving  all  in  the  dim  gray 
starlight.  The  horses  were  not  moving  around ;  the  moan 
of  night  wind  had  grown  fainter;  the  low  hum  of  insects 
was  dying  away;  even  the  tinkle  of  the  brook  had  di- 
minished. And  that  growth  toward  absolute  silence  con- 
tinued, yet  absolute  silence  was  never  attained.  Life 
abided  in  the  forest;  only  it  had  changed  its  form  for  the 
dark  hours. 

Anson's  gang  did  not  bestir  themselves  at  the  usual 
early  sunrise  hour  common  to  all  woocLmen,  hunters,  or 

303 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

outlaws,  to  whom  the  break  of  day  was  welcome.  These 
companions — Anson  and  Riggs  included — might  have 
hated  to  see  the  dawn  come.  It  meant  only  another 
meager  meal,  then  the  weary  packing  and  the  long,  long 
ride  to  nowhere  in  particular,  and  another  meager  meal 
— all  toiled  for  without  even  the  necessities  of  satisfactory 
living,  and  assuredly  without  the  thrilling  hopes  that 
made  their  life  significant,  and  certainly  with  a  growing 
sense  of  approaching  calamity. 

The  outlaw  leader  rose  surly  and  cross-grained.  He 
had  to  boot  Burt  to  drive  him  out  for  the  horses.  Riggs 
followed  him.  Shady  Jones  did  nothing  except  grumble. 
Wilson,  by  common  consent,  always  made  the  sour-dough 
bread,  and  he  was  slow  about  it  this  morning.  Anson 
and  Moze  did  the  rest  of  the  work,  without  alacrity.  The 
girl  did  not  appear. 

"Is  she  dead?"  growled  Anson. 

"No,  she  ain't,"  replied  Wilson,  looking  up.  "She's 
sleepin'.  Let  her  sleep.  She'd  shore  be  a  sight  better 
off  if  she  was  daid." 

"A-huh!  So  would  all  of  this  hyar  outfit,"  was  An- 
son's  response. 

"Wai,  Sna-ake,  I  shore  reckon  we'll  all  be  thet  there 
soon,"  drawled  Wilson,  in  his  familiar  cool  and  irritating 
tone  that  said  so  much  more  than  the  content  of  the 
words. 

.Anson  did  not  address  the  Texas  member  of  his  party 
again. 

Burt  rode  bareback  into  camp,  driving  half  the  number 
of  the  horses;  Riggs  followed  shortly  with  several  more. 
But  three  were  missed,  one  of  them  being  Anson's  favorite. 
He  would  not  have  budged  without  that  horse.  During 
breakfast  he  growled  about  his  lazy  men,  and  after  the 
meal  tried  to  urge  them  off.  Riggs  went  unwillingly, 
Burt  refused  to  go  at  all. 

"Nix.  I  footed  them  hills  all  I'm  a-goin'  to,"  he  said. 
"An'  from  now  on  I  rustle  my  own  hoss." 

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THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

The  leader  glared  his  reception  of  this  opposition.  Per- 
haps his  sense  of  fairness  actuated  him  once  more,  for  he 
ordered  Shady  and  Moze  out  to  do  their  share. 

"Jim,  you're  the  best  tracker  in  this  outfit.  Suppose 
you  go,"  suggested  Anson.  "You  allus  used  to  be  the 
first  one  off." 

"Times  has  changed,  Snake,"  was  the  imperturbable 
reply. 

"Wai,  won't  you  go?"  demanded  the  leader,  im- 
patiently. 

"I  shore  won't." 

Wilson  did  not  look  or  intimate  in  any  way  that  he 
would  not  leave  the  girl  in  camp  with  one  or  any  or  all 
of  Anson's  gang,  but  the  truth  was  as  significant  as  if  he 
had  shouted  it.  The  slow-thinking  Moze  gave  Wilson  a 
sinister  look. 

"Boss,  ain't  it  funny  how  a  pretty  wench — ?"  began 
Shady  Jones,  sarcastically. 

"Shut  up,  you  fool!"  broke  in  Anson.  "Come  on,  I'll 
help  rustle  them  hosses." 

After  they  had  gone  Burt  took  his  rifle  and  strolled  off 
into  the  forest.  Then  the  girl  appeared.  Her  hair  was 
down,  her  face  pale,  with  dark  shadows.  She  asked  for 
water  to  wash  her  face.  Wilson  pointed  to  the  brook, 
and  as  she  walked  slowly  toward  it  he  took  a  comb  and  a 
clean  scarf  from  his  pack  and  carried  them  to  her. 

Upon  her  return  to  the  camp-fire  she  looked  very  dif- 
ferent with  her  hair  arranged  and  the  red  stains  in  her 
cheeks. 

"Miss,  air  you  hungry?"  asked  Wilson. 

"Yes,  I  am,"  she  replied. 

He  helped  her  to  portions  of  bread,  venison  and  gravy, 
and  a  cup  of  coffee.  Evidently  she  relished  the  meat, 
but  she  had  to  force  down  the  rest. 

"Where  are  they  all?"  she  asked. 

"Rustlin'  the  hosses." 

Probably  she  divined  that  he  did  not  want  to  talk,  fof 

305 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

the  fleeting  glance  she  gave  him  attested  to  a  thought  that 
his  voice  or  demeanor  had  changed.  Presently  she  sought 
a  seat  under  the  aspen-tree,  out  of  the  sun,  and  the  smoke 
continually  blowing  in  her  face;  and  there  she  stayed,  a 
forlorn  little  figure,  for  all  the  resolute  lips  and  defiant 
eyes. 

The  Texan  paced  to  and  fro  beside  the  camp-fire  with 
bent  head,  and  hands  locked  behind  him.  But  for  the 
swinging  gun  he  would  have  resembled  a  lanky  farmer, 
coatless  and  hatless,  with  his  brown  vest  open,  his  trousers 
Stuck  in  the  top  of  the  high  boots. 

And  neither  he  nor  the  girl  changed  their  positions, 
relatively  for  a  long  time.  At  length,  however,  after 
peering  into  the  woods,  and  listening,  he  remarked  to  the 
girl  that  he  would  be  back  in  a  moment,  and  then  walked 
off  around  the  spruces. 

No  sooner  had  he  disappeared — in  fact,  so  quickly  after- 
ward that  it  presupposed  design  instead  of  accident — than 
Riggs  came  running  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  glade. 
He  ran  straight  to  the  girl,  who  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"I  hid — two  of  the — horses,"  he  panted,  husky  with 
excitement.  "I'll  take — two  saddles.  You  grab  some 
grub.  We'll  run  for  it." 

"No,"  she  cried,  stepping  back. 

"But  it's  not  safe — for  us — here,"  he  said,  hurriedly, 
glancing  all  around.  "I'll  take  you — home.  I  swear. 
.  .  .  Not  safe — I  tell  you — this  gang's  after  me.  Hurry!" 

He  laid  hold  of  two  saddles,  one  with  each  hand.  The 
moment  had  reddened  his  face,  brightened  his  eyes,  made 
his  action  strong. 

"I'm  safer — here  with  this  outlaw  gang,"  she  replied. 

"You  won't  come!"  His  color  began  to  lighten  then, 
and  his  face  to  distort.  He  dropped  his  hold  on  the 
saddles. 

"Harve  Riggs,  I'd  rather  become  a  toy  and  a  rag  foi 
these  ruffians  than  spend  an  hour  alone  with  you,"  she 
flashed  at  him,  in  unquenchable  hate. 

^06 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"I'll  drag  you!" 

He  seized  her,  but  could  not  hold  her.  Breaking  away, 
she  screamed. 

"Help!" 

That  whitened  his  face,  drove  him  to  frenzy.  Leaping 
forward,  he  struck  her  a  hard  blow  across  the  mouth.  It 
staggered  her,  and,  tripping  on  a  saddle,  she  fell.  His 
hands  flew  to  her  throat,  ready  to  choke  her.  But  she 
lay  still  and  held  her  tongue.  Then  he  dragged  her  to 
her  feet. 

"Hurry  now  —  grab  that  pack  —  an'  follow  me.'1  Again 
Riggs  laid  hold  of  the  two  saddles.  A  desperate  gleam. 
baleful  and  vainglorious,  flashed  over  his  face.  He  was 
living  his  one  great  adventure. 

The  girl's  eyes  dilated.  They  looked  beyond  him.  Her 
lips  opened. 

"Scream  again  an'  I'll  kill  you!"  he  cried,  hoarsely 
and  swiftly.  The  very  opening  of  her  lips  had  terrified 


"Reckon  one  scream  was  enough,"  spoke  a  voice,  slow, 
but  without  the  drawl,  easy  and  cool,  yet  incalculable  in 
some  terrible  sense. 

Riggs  wheeled  with  inarticulate  cry.  Wilson  stood  a 
few  paces  off,  with  his  gun  half  leveled,  low  down.  His 
face  seemed  as  usual,  only  his  eyes  held  a  quivering,  light 
intensity,  like  boiling  molten  silver. 

"Girl,  what  made  thet  blood  on  your  mouth?'* 

"Riggs  hit  me!"  she  whispered.  Then  at  something 
she  feared  or  saw  or  divined  she  shrank  back,  dropped  on 
her  knees,  and  crawled  into  the  spruce  shelter. 

"Wai,  Riggs,  I'd  invite  you  to  draw  if  thet  'd  be  any 
use,"  said  Wilson.  This  speech  was  reflective,  yet  it 
hurried  a  little. 

Riggs  could  not  draw  nor  move  nor  speak.  He  seemed 
turned  to  stone,  except  his  jaw,  which  slowly  fell. 

"Harve  Riggs,  gunman  from  down  Missouri  way," 
continued  the  voice  of  incalculable  intent,  "reckon 

307 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

you've  looked  into  a  heap  of  gun-barrels  in  your  day. 
Shore !    Wai,  look  in  this  heah  one ! " 

Wilson  deliberately  leveled  the  gun  on  a  line  with 
Riggs's  starting  eyes. 

"Wasn't  you  heard  to  brag  in  Turner's  saloon — thet  you 
could  see  lead  comin' — an'  dodge  it?  Shore  you  must 
be  swift!  .  .  .  Dod?e  this  heah  bullet!" 

The  gun  spouted  flame  and  boomed.  One  of  Riggs's 
starting,  popping  eyes — the  right  one — went  out,  like  a 
lamp.  The  other  rolled  horribly,  then  set  in  blank  dead 
fixedness.  Riggs  swayed  in  slow  motion  until  a  lost 
balance  felled  him  heavily,  an  inert  mass. 

Wilson  bent  over  the  prostrate  form.  Strange,  violent 
contrast  to  the  cool  scorn  of  the  preceding  moment! 
Hissing,  spitting,  as  if  poisoned  by  passion,  he  burst  with 
the  hate  that  his  character  had  forbidden  him  to  express 
on  a  living  counterfeit.  Wilson  was  shaken,  as  if  by  a 
palsy.  He  choked  over  passionate,  incoherent  invective. 
It  was  class  hate  first,  then  the  hate  of  real  manhood  for 
a  craven,  then  the  hate  of  disgrace  for  a  murder.  No 
man  so  fair  as  a  gun-fighter  in  the  Western  creed  of  an 
"even  break"! 

Wilson's  terrible  cataclysm  of  passion  passed.  Straight- 
ening up,  he  sheathed  his  weapon  and  began  a  slow  pace 
before  the  fire.  Not  many  moments  afterward  he  jerked 
his  head  high  and  listened.  Horses  were  softly  thudding 
through  the  forest.  Soon  Anson  rode  into  sight  with  his 
men  and  one  of  the  strayed  horses.  It  chanced,  too,  that 
young  Burt  appeared  on  the  other  side  of  the  glade.  He 
walked  quickly,  as  one  who  anticipated  news. 

Snake  Anson  as  he  dismounted  espied  the  dead  man. 

"Jim— I  thought  I  heard  a  shot." 

The  others  exclaimed  and  leaped  off  their  horses  to  view 
the  prostrate  form  with  that  curiosity  and  strange  fear 
common  to  all  men  confronted  by  sight  of  sudden  death. 

That  emotion  was  only  momentary. 

"Shot  his  lamp  out!"  ejaculated  Moze. 

308 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Wonder  how  Gunman  Riggs  liked  thet  plumb  cente* 
peg!"  exclaimed  Shady  Jones,  with  a  hard  laugh. 

"Back  of  his  head  all  gone!"  gasped  young  Burt.  Not 
improbably  he  had  not  seen  a  great  many  bullet-marked 
men. 

"Jim! — the  long-haired  fool  didn't  try  to  draw  on  you!" 
exclaimed  Snake  Anson,  astounded. 

Wilson  neither  spoke  nor  ceased  his  pacing. 

"What  was  it  over?"  added  Anson,  curiously. 

"He  hit  the  gurl,"  replied  Wilson. 

Then  there  were  long-drawn  exclamations  all  around, 
and  glance  met  glance. 

"Jim,  you  saved  me  the  job,"  continued  the  outlaw 
leader.  "An'  I'm  much  obliged.  .  .  .  Fellars,  search 
Riggs  an'  we'll  diwy.  .  .  .  Thet  all  right,  Jim?" 

"Shore,  an'  you  can  have  my  share." 

They  found  bank-notes  in  the  man's  pocket  and  consid- 
erable gold  worn  in  a  money-belt  around  his  waist.  Shady 
Jones  appropriated  his  boots,  and  Moze  his  gun.  Then 
they  left  him  as  he  had  fallen. 

"Jim,  you'll  have  to  track  them  lost  hosses.  Two  still 
missin'  an'  one  of  them's  mine,"  called  Anson  as  Wilson 
paced  to  the  end  of  his  beat. 

The  girl  heard  Anson,  for  she  put  her  head  out  of  the 
spruce  shelter  and  called:  "Riggs  said  he'd  hid  two  of  the 
horses.  They  must  be  close.  He  came  that  way." 

"Howdy,  kid!  Thet 's  good  news,"  replied  Anson.  His 
spirits  were  rising.  "He  must  hev  wanted  you  to  slope 
with  him?" 

"Yes.    I  wouldn't  go." 

"An'  then  he  hit  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Wai,  recallin'  your  talk  of  yestiddy,  I  can't  see  as 
Mister  Riggs  lasted  much  longer  hyar  than  he'd  hev 
lasted  in  Texas.  We've  some  of  thet  great  country  right 
in  our  outfit." 

The  girl  withdrew  her  white  face. 

309 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"It's  break  camp,  boys,"  was  the  leader's  order.  "A 
couple  of  you  look  up  them  hosses.  They'll  be  hid  in  some 
thick  spruces.  The  rest  of  us  '11  pack." 

Soon  the  gang  was  on  the  move,  heading  toward  the 
height  of  land,  and  swerving  from  it  only  to  find  soft  and 
grassy  ground  that  would  not  leave  any  tracks. 

They  did  not  travel  more  than  a  dozen  miles  during 
the  afternoon,  but  they  climbed  bench  after  bench  until 
they  reached  the  timbered  plateau  that  stretched  in  sheer 
black  slope  up  to  the  peaks.  Here  rose  the  great  and 
gloomy  forest  of  firs  and  pines,  with  the  spruce  over- 
shadowed and  thinned  out.  The  last  hour  of  travel  was 
tedious  and  toilsome,  a  zigzag,  winding,  breaking,  climbing 
hunt  for  the  kind  of  camp-site  suited  to  Anson's  fancy. 
He  seemed  to  be  growing  strangely  irrational  about  select- 
ing places  to  camp.  At  last,  for  no  reason  that  could  have 
been  manifest  to  a  good  woodsman,  he  chose  a  gloomy 
bowl  in  the  center  of  the  densest  forest  that  had  been 
traversed.  The  opening,  if  such  it  could  have  been  called, 
Was  not  a  park  or  even  a  glade.  A  dark  cliff,  with  strange 
holes,  rose  to  one  side,  but  not  so  high  as  the  lofty  pines 
that  brushed  it.  Along  its  base  babbled  a  brook,  running 
over  such  formation  of  rock  that  from  different  points- 
near  at  hand  it  gave  forth  different  sounds,  some  singing, 
others  melodious,  and  one  at  least  of  a  hollow,  weird,  deep 
sound,  not  loud,  but  strangely  penetrating. 

"Sure  spooky  I  say,"  observed  Shady,  sentiently. 

The  little  uplift  of  mood,  coincident  with  the  rifling 
of  Riggs's  person,  had  rot  worn  over  to  this  evening  camp 
What  talk  the  outlav/s  indulged  in  was  necessary  and  con- 
ducted in  low  tones.  The  place  enjoined  silence. 

Wilson  performed  for  the  girl  very  much  the  same  ser- 
vice as  he  had  the  night  before.  Only  he  advised  her  not 
to  starve  herself;  she  must  eat  to  keep  up  her  strength. 
She  c  omplied  at  the  expense  of  considerable  effort. 

A£  it  had  been  a  back-breaking  day,  in  which  all  of 

310 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

them,  except  the  girl,  had  climbed  miles  on  foot,  they  did 
not  linger  awake  long  enough  after  supper  to  learn  what  a 
wild,  weird,  and  pitch-black  spot  the  outlaw  leader  had 
chosen.  The  little  spaces  of  open  ground  between  the 
huge-trunked  pine-trees  had  no  counterpart  up  in  the 
lofty  spreading  foliage.  Not  a  star  could  blink  a  wan  ray 
of  light  into  that  Stygian  pit.  The  wind,  cutting  down 
over  abrupt  heights  farther  up,  sang  in  the  pine-needles 
as  if  they  were  strings  vibrant  with  chords.  Dismal  creaks 
were  audible.  They  were  the  forest  sounds  of  branch  or 
tree  rubbing  one  another,  but  which  needed  the  corrective 
medium  of  daylight  to  convince  any  human  that  they  were 
other  than  ghostly.  Then,  despite  the  wind  and  despite 
the  changing  murmur  of  the  brook,  there  seemed  to  be  a 
silence  insulating  them,  as  deep  and  impenetrable  as  the 
darkness. 

But  the  outlaws,  who  were  fugitives  now,  slept  the  sleep 
of  the  weary,  and  heard  nothing.  They  awoke  with  the 
sun,  when  the  forest  seemed  smoky  in  a  golden  gloom, 
when  light  and  bird  and  squirrel  proclaimed  the  day. 

The  horses  had  not  strayed  out  of  this  basin  during  the 
night,  a  circumstance  that  Anson  was  not  slow  to  appre- 
ciate. 

"It  ain't  no  cheerful  camp,  but  I  never  seen  a  safer 
place  to  hole  up  in,"  he  remarked  to  Wilson. 

"Wai,  yes — if  any  place  is  safe,"  replied  that  ally, 
dubiously. 

"We  can  watch  our  back  tracks.  There  ain't  any  other 
way  to  git  in  hyar  thet  I  see." 

"Snake,  we  was  tolerable  fair  sheep-rustlers,  but  we're 
no  good  woodsmen." 

Anson  g-umbled  hi's  disdain  of  this  comrade  who  had 
once  been  his  mainstay.  Then  he  sent  Burt  out  to  hunt 
fresh  meat  and  engaged  his  other  men  at  cards.  As  they 
now  had  the  means  to  gamble,  they  at  once  became  ab- 
sorbed. Wilson  smoked  and  divided  his  thoughtful  gaze 
between  the  gamblers  and  the  drooping  figure  of  the  girl. 

3" 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

The  morning  air  was  keen,  and  she,  evidently  not  caring 
to  be  near  her  captors  beside  the  camp-fire,  had  sought 
the  only  sunny  spot  in  this  gloomy  dell.  A  couple  of 
hours  passed;  the  sun  climbed  high;  the  air  grew  warmer. 
Once  the  outlaw  leader  raised  his  head  to  scan  the  heavy- 
timbered  slopes  that  inclosed  the  camp. 

"Jim,  them  hosses  are  strayin'  off,"  he  observed. 

Wilson  leisurely  rose  and  stalked  off  across  the  small, 
open  patches,  in  the  direction  of  the  horses.  They  had 
grazed  around  from  the  right  toward  the  outlet  of  the 
brook.  Here  headed  a  ravine,  dense  and  green.  Two  of 
the  horses  had  gone  down.  Wilson  evidently  heard  them, 
though  they  were  not  in  sight,  and  he  circled  somewhat  so 
as  to  get  ahead  of  them  and  drive  them  back.  The  in- 
visible brook  ran  down  over  the  rocks  with  murmur  and 
babble.  He  halted  with  instinctive  action.  He  listened. 
Forest  sounds,  soft,  lulling,  came  on  the  warm,  pine- 
scented  breeze.  It  would  have  taken  no  keen  ear  to  hear 
soft  and  rapid  padded  footfalls.  He  moved  on  cautiously 
and  turned  into  a  little  open,  mossy  spot,  brown-matted 
and  odorous,  full  of  ferns  and  bluebells.  In  the  middle 
of  this,  deep  in  the  moss,  he  espied  a  huge  round  track 
of  a  cougar.  He  bent  over  it.  Suddenly  he  stiffened, 
then  straightened  guardedly.  At  that  instant  he  received 
a  hard  prod  in  the  back.  Throwing  up  his  hands,  he  stood 
still,  then  slowly  turned.  A  tall  hunter  in  gray  buckskin, 
gray-eyed  and  square-jawed,  had  him  covered  with  a 
cocked  rifle.  And  beside  this  hunter  stood  a  monster 
cougar,  snarling  and  blinking. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

"ITOWDY,  Dale>"  drawled  Wilson.    "Reckon  you're 

11  a  little  previous  on  me." 

"Sssssh!  Not  so  loud,"  said  the  hunter,  in  low  voice. 
"You're  Jim  Wilson?" 

"Shore  am.  Say,  Dale,  you  showed  up  soon.  Or  did 
you  jest  happen  to  run  acrost  us?" 

"  I've  trailed  you.     Wilson,  I'm  after  the  girl." 

"I  knowed  thet  when  I  seen  you!" 

The  cougar  seemed  actuated  by  the  threatening  posi- 
tion of  his  master,  and  he  opened  his  mouth,  showing  great 
yellow  fangs,  and  spat  at  Wilson.  The  outlaw  apparently 
had  no  fear  of  Dale  or  the  cocked  rifle,  but  that  huge, 
snarling  cat  occasioned  him  uneasiness. 

"Wilson,  I've  heard  you  spoken  of  as  a  white  outlaw," 
said  Dale. 

"Mebbe  I  am.  But  shore  I'll  be  a  scared  one  in  a 
minit.  Dale,  he's  goin'  to  jump  me!" 

"The  cougar  won't  jump  you  unless  I  make  him.  Wil- 
son, if  I  let  you  go  will  you  get  the  girl  for  me?" 

' '  Wai ,  lemme  see .  Supposin'  I  refuse  ? ' '  queried  Wilson, 
shrewdly. 

"Then,  one  way  or  another,  it's  all  up  with  you." 

"  Reckon  I  'ain't  got  much  choice.  Yes,  I'll  do  it.  But, 
Dale,  are  you  goin'  to  take  my  word  for  thet  an'  let  me 
go  back  to  Anson  ? " 

"Yes,  I  am.  You're  no  fool.  An*  I  believe  you're 
square.  I've  got  Anson  and  his  gang  corralled.  You 
can't  slip  me — not  in  these  woods.  I  could  run  off  your 
horses — pick  you  off  one  by  one — or  turn  the  cougar  l^ose 
on  you  at  night." 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

11  Shore.  It's  your  game.  Anson  dealt  himself  this  hand. 
. . .  Between  vou  an'  me,  Dale,  I  never  liked  the  deal." 

"  Who  shot  Riggs?  ...  I  found  his  body." 

"Wai,  yours  truly  was  around  when  thet  come  off," 
replied  Wilson,  with  an  involuntary  little  shudder.  Some 
thought  made  him  sick. 

"The  girl?  Is  she  safe — unharmed?"  queried  Dale, 
hurriedly. 

"She's  shore  jest  as  safe  an'  sound  as  when  she  was 
home.  Dale,  she's  the  gamest  kid  thet  ever  breathed! 
Why,  no  one  could  hev  ever  made  me  believe  a  girl,  a  kid 
like  her,  could  hev  the  nerve  she's  got.  Nothin's  hap- 
pened to  her  'cept  Riggs  hit  her  in  the  mouth.  ...  I  killed 
him  for  thet.  .  .  .  An',  so  help  me,  God,  I  believe  it's  been 
workin'  in  me  to  save  her  somehow!  Now  it  11  not  be 
so  hard." 

"But  how?"  demanded  Dale. 

"  Lemme  see.  . .  .  Wai,  I've  got  to  sneak  her  out  of  camp 
an'  meet  you.  Thet's  all." 

"It  must  be  done  quick." 

"But,  Dale,  listen,"  remonstrated  Wilson,  earnestly. 
"  Too  quick  '11  be  as  bad  as  too  slow.  Snake  is  sore  these 
days,  gittin'  sorer  all  the  time.  He  might  savvy  some- 
thin',  if  I  ain't  careful,  an'  kill  the  girl  or  do  her  harm. 
I  know  these  fellars.  They're  all  ready  to  go  to  pieces. 
An'  shore  I  must  play  safe.  Shore  io  'd  be  safer  to  have 
a  plan." 

Wilson's  shrewd,  light  eyes  gleamed  with  an  idea.  He 
was  about  to  lower  one  of  his  upraised  hands,  evidently 
to  point  to  the  cougar,  when  he  thought  better  of  that. 

"Anson's  scared  of  cougars.  Mebbe  we  can  scare  him 
an*  the  gang  so  it  'd  be  easy  to  sneak  the  girl  off.  Can 
you  make  thet  big  brute  do  tricks?  Rush  the  camp  at 
night  an'  squall  an'  chase  off  the  horses?" 

"  I'll  guarantee  to  scare  Anson  out  of  ten  years'  growth," 
replied  Dale. 

"Shore  it's  a  go,  then,"  resumed  Wilson,  as  if  glad. 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"  I'll  post  the  girl — give  her  a  hunch  to  do  her  part.  You 
sneak  up  to-night  jest  before  dark.  I'll  hev  the  gang 
worked  up.  An'  then  you  put  the  cougar  to  his  tricks, 
whatever  you  want.  When  the  gang  gits  wild  111  grab 
the  girl  an*  pack  her  off  down  heah  or  somewheres  aboot 
an'  whistle  fer  you.  .  .  .  But  mebbe  thet  ain't  so  good.  If 
thet  cougar  comes  pilin'  into  camp  he  might  jump  me 
instead  of  one  of  the  gang.  An'  another  hunch.  He 
might  slope  up  on  me  in  the  dark  when  I  was  tryin'  to 
find  you.  Shore  thet  ain't  appealin'  to  me." 

" Wilson,  this  cougar  is  a  pet,"  replied  Dale.  "You 
think  he's  dangerous,  but  he's  not.  No  more  than  a 
kitten.  He  only  looks  fierce.  He  has  never  been  hurt 
by  a  person  an'  he's  never  fought  anythin'  himself  but 
deer  an'  bear.  I  can  make  him  trail  any  scent.  But 
the  truth  is  I  couldn't  make  him  hurt  you  or  anybody. 
All  the  same,  he  can  be  made  to  scare  the  hair  off  any  one 
who  doesn't  know  him." 

''Shore  thet  settles  me.  I'll  be  havin'  a  grand  joke 
while  them  fellars  is  scared  to  death.  .  .  .  Dale,  you  can 
depend  on  me.  An'  I'm  beholdin'  to  you  fer  what  '11 
square  me  some  with  myself.  .  .  .  To-night,  an'  if  it  won't 
work  then,  to-morrer  night  shore!" 

Dale  lowered  the  rifle.  The  big  cougar  spat  again. 
Wilson  dropped  his  hands  and,  stepping  forward,  split  the 
green  wall  of  intersecting  spruce  branches.  Then  he  hur- 
ried up  the  ravine  toward  the  glen.  Once  there,  in  sight 
of  his  comrades,  his  action  and  expression  changed. 

"Hosses  all  thar,  Jim?"  asked  Anson,  as  he  picked  up 
his  cards. 

"Shore.  They  act  awful  queer,  them  bosses,"  replied 
Wilson.  "They're  afraid  of  somethin'." 

"A-huh!  Silvertip  mebbe,"  muttered  Anson.  "Jim, 
you  jest  keep  watch  of  them  hosses.  We'd  be  done  if 
some  tarnal  varmint  stampeded  them." 

"Reckon  I'm  elected  to  do  all  the  work  now,"  com- 
plained Wilson,  "while  you  card-sharps  cheat  each  other. 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

Rustle  the  hosses — an'  water  an'  fire-wood.  Cook  an* 
wash.  Hey?" 

"No  one  I  ever  seen  can  do  them  camp  tricks  any  bet* 
ter  'n  Jim  Wilson,"  replied  Anson. 

"Jim,  you're  a  lady's  man  an'  thar's  our  pretty  hoodoo 
over  thar  to  feed  an'  amoose,"  remarked  Shady  Jones, 
with  a  smile  that  disarmed  his  speech. 

The  outlaws  guffawed. 

"Git  out,  Jim,  you're  breakin'  up  the  game,"  said 
Moze,  who  appeared  loser. 

"Wai,  thet  gurl  would  starve  if  it  wasn't  fer  me,"  re- 
plied Wilson,  genially,  and  he  walked  over  toward  her, 
beginning  to  address  her,  quite  loudly,  as  he  approached. 
"Wai,  miss,  I'm  elected  cook  an'  I'd  shore  like  to  heah 
what  you  fancy  fer  dinner." 

The  outlaws  heard,  for  they  guffawed  again.  "Haw! 
Haw!  if  Jim  ain't  funny!"  exclaimed  Anson. 

The  girl  looked  up  amazed.  Wilson  was  winking  at 
her,  and  when  he  got  near  he  began  to  speak  rapidly  and 
low. 

"  I  jest  met  Dale  down  in  the  woods  with  his  pet  cougar. 
He's  after  you.  I'm  goin'  to  help  him  git  you  safe  away. 
Now  you  do  your  part.  I  want  you  to  pretend  you've 
gone  crazy.  Savvy?  Act  out  of  your  head!  Shore  I 
don't  care  what  you  do  or  say,  only  act  crazy.  An'  don't 
be  scared.  We're  goin'  to  scare  the  gang  so  I'll  hev  a 
chance  to  sneak  you  away.  To-night  or  to-morrow — 
shore." 

Before  he  began  to  speak  she  was  pale,  sad,  dull  of  eye. 
Swiftly,  with  his  words,  she  was  transformed,  and  when 
he  had  ended  she  did  not  appear  the  same  girl.  She  gave 
him  one  blazing  flash  of  comprehension  and  nodded  her 
head  rapidly. 

"Yes,  I  understand.     I'll  do  it!"  she  whispered. 

The  outlaw  turned  slowly  away  with  the  most  abstract 
air,  confounded  amid  his  shrewd  acting,  and  he  did  not 
collect  himself  until  half-way  back  do  his  comrades  Then, 

316 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

beginning  to  hum  an  old  darky  tune,  he  stirred  up  and  re- 
plenished the  fire,  and  set  about  preparation  for  the  mid- 
day meal.  But  he  did  not  miss  anything  going  on  around 
him.  He  saw  the  girl  go  into  her  shelter  and  come  out 
with  her  hair  all  down  over  her  face.  Wilson,  back  to  his 
comrades,  grinned  his  glee,  and  he  wagged  his  head  as  if 
he  thought  the  situation  was  developing. 

The  gambling  outlaws,  however,  did  not  at  once  see 
the  girl  preening  herself  and  smoothing  her  long  hair  in 
a  way  calculated  to  startle. 

"  Busted ! "  ejaculated  Anson,  with  a  curse,  as  he  slammed 
down  his  cards.  "If  I  ain't  hoodooed  I'm  a  two-bit  of  a 
gambler!" 

"Sartin  you're  hoodooed,"  said  Shady  Jones,  in  scorn. 
"Is  thet  jest  dawnin*  on  you?" 

"Boss,  you  play  like  a  cow  stuck  in  the  mud,"  remarked 
Moze,  laconically. 

"Fellars,  it  ain't  funny,"  declared  Anson,  with  pathetic 
gravity.  "I'm  jest  gittin'  on  to  myself.  Somethin's 
wrong.  Since  'way  last  fall  no  luck — nothin*  but  the  wust 
end  of  every  thin'.  I  ain't  blamin'  anybody.  I'm  the 
boss.  It's  me  thet's  off." 

"Snake,  shore  it  was  the  gurl  deal  you  made,"  rejoined 
Wilson,  who  had  listened.  "I  told  you.  Our  troubles 
hev  only  begun.  An'  I  can  see  the  wind-up.  Look!" 

Wilson  pointed  to  where  the  girl  stood,  her  hair  flying 
wildly  all  over  her  face  and  shoulders.  She  was  making 
most  elaborate  bows  to  an  old  stump,  sweeping  the  ground 
with  her  tresses  in  her  obeisance. 

Anson  started.  He  grew  utterly  astounded.  His  amaze 
was  ludicrous.  And  the  other  two  men  looked  to  stare, 
to  equal  their  leader's  bewilderment. 

"  What  'n  hell's  come  over  her  ? "  asked  Anson,  dubiously. 
"Must  hev  perked  up.  .  .  .  But  she  ain't  feelin'  thet  gay!" 

Wilson  tapped  his  forehead  with  a  significant  finger. 

"Shore  I  was  scared  of  her  this  mawnin',"  he  whispered. 

"Naw!"  exclaimed  Anson,  incredulously. 

317 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"If  she  hain't  queer  I  never  seen  no  queer  wimmin," 
vouchsafed  Shady  Jones,  and  it  would  have  been  judged, 
by  the  way  he  wagged  his  head,  that  he  had  been  all  his 
days  familiar  with  women. 

Moze  looked  beyond  words,  and  quite  alarmed. 

"I  seen  it  comin',"  declared  Wilson,  very  much  excited. 
"But  I  was  scared  to  say  so.  You-all  made  fun  of  me 
aboot  her.  Now  I  shore  wish  I  had  spoken  up." 

Anson  nodded  solemnly.  He  did  not  believe  the  evi- 
dence of  his  sight,  but  the  facts  seemed  stunning.  As  if 
the  girl  were  a  dangerous  and  incomprehensible  thing,  he 
approached  her  step  by  step.  Wilson  followed,  and  the 
others  appeared  drawn  irresistibly. 

"Hey  thar — kid!"  called  Anson,  hoarsely. 

The  girl  drew  her  slight  form  up  haughtily.  Through 
her  spreading  tresses  her  eyes  gleamed  unnaturally  upon 
the  outlaw  leader.  But  she  deigned  not  to  reply. 

"Hey  thar — you  Rayner  girl!"  added  Anson,  lamely. 
"What's  ailin'  you?" 

"My  lord!  did  you  address  me?"  she  asked,  loftily. 

Shady  Jones  got  over  his  consternation  and  evidently 
extracted  some  humor  from  the  situation,  as  his  dark 
face  began  to  break  its  strain. 

"Aww!"  breathed  Anson,  heavily. 

"Ophelia  awaits  your  command,  my  lord.  I've  been 
gathering  flowers,"  she  said,  sweetly,  holding  up  her  empty 
hands  as  if  they  contained  a  bouquet. 

Shady  Jones  exploded  in  convulsed  laughter.  But  his 
.merriment  was  not  shared.  And  suddenly  it  brought  dis- 
aster upon  him.  The  girl  flew  at  him. 

' '  Why  do  you  croak,  you  toad  ?  I  will  have  you  whipped 
and  put  in  irons,  you  scullion!"  she  cried,  passionately. 

Shady  underwent  a  remarkable  change,  and  stumbled 
in  his  backward  retreat.  Then  she  snapped  her  fingers 
in  Moze's  face. 

"  You  black  devil !    Get  hence !    Avaunt ! " 

Anson  plucked  up  courage  enough  to  touch  her. 

318 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Aww!    Now,  Ophelyar — ' 

Probably  he  meant  to  try  to  humor  her,  but  she 
screamed,  and  he  jumped  back  as  if  she  might  burn  him. 
She  screamed  shrilly,  in  wild,  staccato  notes. 

"You!  You!"  she  pointed  her  finger  at  the  outlaw 
leader.  "You  brute  to  women!  You  ran  off  from  your 
wife!" 

Anson  turned  plum-color  and  then  slowly  white.  The 
girl  must  have  sent  a  random  shot  home. 

"And  now  the  devil's  turned  you  into  a  snake.  A  long, 
scaly  snake  with  green  eyes!  Uugh!  You'll  crawl  on 
your  belly  soon — when  my  cowboy  finds  you.  And  he'll 
tramp  you  in  the  dust." 

She  floated  away  from  them  and  began  to  whirl  grace- 
fully, arms  spread  and  hair  flying;  and  then,  apparently 
oblivious  of  the  staring  men,  she  broke  into  a  low,  sweet 
song.  Next  she  danced  around  a  pine,  then  danced  into 
her  little  green  inclosure.  From  which  presently  she  sent 
out  the  most  doleful  moans. 

"Aww!  What  a  shame!"  burst  out  Anson.  "Thet 
fine,  healthy,  nervy  kid !  Clean  gone !  Daffy !  Crazy  'n 
a  bedbug!" 

"Shore  it's  a  shame,"  protested  Wilson.  "But  it's 
wuss  for  us.  Lord !  if  we  was  hoodooed  before,  what  will 
we  be  now?  Didn't  I  tell  you,  Snake  Anson?  You  was 
warned.  Ask  Shady  an'  Moze — they  see  what's  up." 

"  No  luck  '11  ever  come  our  way  ag'in,"  predicted  Shady, 
mournfully. 

"  It  beats  me,  boss,  it  beats  me,"  muttered  Moze. 

"A  crazy  woman  on  my  hands!  If  thet  ain't  the  last 
straw!"  broke  out  Anson>  tragically,  as  he  turned  away. 
Ignorant,  superstitious,  worked  upon  by  things  as  they 
seemed,  the  outlaw  imagined  himself  at  last  beset  by 
malign  forces.  When  he  flung  himself  down  upon  one 
of  the  packs  his  big  red-haired  hands  shook.  Shady  and 
Moze  resembled  two  other  men  at  the  end  of  their  ropes. 

Wilson's  tense  face  twitched,  and  he  averted  it7  as  ap- 

319 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

patently  he  fought  off  a  paroxysm  ot  some  nature.  Just 
then  Anson  swore  a  thundering  oath. 

"Crazy  or  not,  I'll  git  gold  out  of  thet  kid!"  he  roared. 

"But,  man,  talk  sense.  Are  you  gittin'  daffy,  too?  I 
declare  this  outfit's  been  eatin'  loco.  You  can't  git  gold 
fer  her!"  said  Wilson,  deliberately. 

"Why  can't  I?" 

"'Cause  we're  tracked.  We  can't  make  no  dickers. 
Why,  in  another  day  or  so  we'll  be  dodgin'  lead." 

"Tracked!  Whar 'd  you  git  thet  idee?  As  soon  as 
this? "  queried  Anson,  lifting  his  head  like  a  striking  snake. 
His  men,  likewise,  betrayed  sudden  interest. 

"Shore  it's  no  idee.  I  'ain't  seen  any  one.  But  I  feel 
it  in  my  senses.  I  hear  somebody  comin' — a  step  on  our 
trail — all  the  time — night  in  particular.  Reckon  there's 
a  big  posse  after  us." 

"Wai,  if  I  see  or  hear  anythin'  I'll  knock  the  girl  on  the 
head  an'  we'll  dig  out  of  hyar,"  replied  Anson,  sullenly. 

Wilson  executed  a  swift  forward  motion,  violent  and 
passionate,  so  utterly  unlike  what  might  have  been  looked 
for  from  him,  that  the  three  outlaws  gaped. 

"Then  you'll  shore  hev  to  knock  Jim  Wilson  on  the  haid 
first,"  he  said,  in  voice  as  strange  as  his  action. 

"Jim!  You  wouldn't  go  back  on  me!"  implored  An- 
son, with  uplifted  hands,  in  a  dignity  of  pathos. 

"  I'm  losin'  my  haid,  too,  an'  you  shore  might  as  well 
knock  it  in,  an'  you'll  hev  to  before  I'll  stand  you  mur- 
derin'  thet  pore  little  gurl  you've  drove  crazy." 

"Jim,  I  was  only  mad,"  replied  Anson.  "Fer  thet 
matter,  I'm  growin'  daffy  myself.  Aw!  we-all  need  a 
good  stiff  drink  of  whisky." 

So  he  tried  to  throw  off  gloom  and  apprehension,  but  he 
failed.  His  comrades  did  not  rally  to  his  help.  Wilson 
walked  away,  nodding  his  head. 

"Boss,  let  Jim  alone,"  whispered  Shady.  "It's  orful 
the  way  you  buck  ag'in'  him — when  you  seen  he's  stirred 
up.  Jim's  true  blue.  But  you  gotta  be  careful." 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

Moze  corroborated  this  statement  by  gloomy  nods. 

When  the  card-playing  was  resumed,  Anson  did  not 
join  the  game,  and  both  Moze  and  Shady  evinced  little  of 
that  whole-hearted  obsession  which  usually  attended  their 
gambling.  Anson  lay  at  length,  his  head  in  a  saddle, 
scowling  at  the  little  shelter  where  the  captive  girl  kept 
herself  out  of  sight.  At  times  a  faint  song  or  laugh,  very 
unnatural,  was  wafted  across  the  space.  Wilson  plodded 
at  the  cooking  and  apparently  heard  no  sounds.  Pres- 
ently he  called  the  men  to  eat,  which  office  they  surlily 
and  silently  performed,  as  if  it  was  a  favor  bestowed  upon 
the  cook. 

"Snake,  hadn't  I  ought  to  take  a  bite  of  grub  over  to 
the  gurl?"  asked  Wilson. 

' '  Do  you  hev  to  ask  me  thet  ? ' '  snapped  Anson.  ' '  She's 
gotta  be  fed,  if  we  hev  to  stuff  it  down  her  throat." 

"Wai,  I  ain't  stuck  on  the  job,"  replied  Wilson.  "But 
I'll  tackle  it,  seein'  you-all  got  cold  feet." 

With  plate  and  cup  he  reluctantly  approached  the  little 
lean-to,  and,  kneeling,  he  put  his  head  inside.  The  girl, 
quick-eyed  and  alert,  had  evidently  seen  him  coming. 
At  any  rate,  she  greeted  him  with  a  cautious  smile. 

"Jim,  was  I  pretty  good?"  she  whispered. 

"  Miss,  you  was  shore  the  finest  aktress  I  ever  seen,"  he 
responded,  in  a  low  voice.  "But  you  darn  near  overdid 
it.  I'm  goin'  to  tell  Anson  you're  sick  now — poisoned  or 
somethin*  awful.  Then  we'll  wait  till  night.  Dale  shore 
will  help  us  out." 

"Oh,  I'm  on  fire  to  get  away,"  she  exclaimed.  "Jim 
Wilson,  I'll  never  forget  you  as  long  as  I  live!" 

He  seemed  greatly  embarrassed. 

"Wai — miss — I — I'll  do  my  best  licks.  But  I  ain't 
gamblin'  none  on  results.  Be  patient.  Keep  your  nerve. 
Don't  get  scared.  I  reckon  between  me  an'  Dale  you'll 
git  away  from  heah." 

Withdrawing  his  head,  he  got  up  and  returned  to  the 
camp-fire,  where  Anson  was  waiting  curiously. 

321 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"I  left  the  grub.  But  she  didn't  touch  it.  Seems  sort 
of  sick  to  me,  like  she  was  poisoned." 

"Jim,  didn't  I  hear  you  talkin'  ? "  asked  Anson. 

"Shore.  I  was  coaxin'  her.  Reckon  she  ain't  so  ranty 
as  she  was.  But  she  shore  is  doubled-up  an*  sickish." 

"Wuss  an'  wuss  all  the  time,"  said  Anson,  between  his 
teeth.  "An'  where's  Burt?  Hyar  it's  noon  an'  he  left 
early.  He  never  was  no  woodsman.  He's  got  lost." 

"Either  thet  or  he's  run  into  somethin',"  replied  Wilson, 
thoughtfully. 

Anson  doubled  a  huge  fist  and  cursed  deep  under  his 
breath — the  reaction  of  a  man  whose  accomplices  and  part- 
ners and  tools,  whose  luck,  whose  faith  in  himself  had 
failed  him.  He  flung  himself  down  under  a  tree,  and  after 
a  while,  when  his  rigidity  relaxed,  he  probably  fell  asleep. 
Moze  and  Shady  kept  at  their  game.  Wilson  paced  to  and 
fro,  sat  down,  and  then  got  up  to  bunch  the  horses  again, 
walked  around  the  dell  and  back  to  camp.  The  afternoon 
hours  were  long.  And  they  were  waiting  hours.  The  act  of 
waiting  appeared  on  the  surface  of  all  these  outlaws  did. 

At  sunset  the  golden  gloom  of  the  glen  changed  to  a 
vague,  thick  twilight.  Anson  rolled  over,  yawned,  and  sat 
up.  As  he  glanced  around,  evidently  seeking  Burt,  his 
face  clouded. 

"No  sign  of  Burt?"  he  asked. 

Wilson  expressed  a  mild  surprise.  "Wai,  Snake,  you 
ain't  expectin'  Burt  now?" 

"I  am,  course  I  am.  Why  not?"  demanded  Anson. 
"Any  other  time  we'd  look  fer  him,  wouldn't  we?" 

"Any  other  time  ain't  now.  .  .  .  Burt  won't  ever  come 
back!"  Wilson  spoke  it  with  a  positive  finality. 

"A-huh!  Some  more  of  them  queer  feelin's  of  youro 
— operatin'  again,  hey?  Them  onnatural  kind  thet  yoit 
can't  explain,  hey?" 

Anson's  queries  were  bitter  and  rancorous. 

"Yes.  An',  Snake,  I  tax  you  with  this  heah.  Ain't 
any  of  them  queer  feelin's  operatin'  in  you? " 

322 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"No!"  rolled  out  the  leader,  savagely.  But  his  pas- 
sionate denial  was  a  proof  that  he  lied.  From  the  moment 
of  this  outburst,  which  was  a  fierce  clinging  to  the  old, 
brave  instincts  of  his  character,  unless  a  sudden  change 
marked  the  nature  of  his  fortunes,  he  would  rapidly  de- 
teriorate to  the  breaking-point.  And  in  such  brutal,  un- 
restrained natures  as  his  this  breaking-point  meant  a 
desperate  stand,  a  desperate  forcing  of  events,  a  desperate 
accumulation  of  passions  that  stalked  out  to  deal  and  to 
meet  disaster  and  blood  and  death. 

Wilson  put  a  little  wood  on  the  fire  and  he  munched  a 
biscuit.  No  one  asked  him  to  cook.  No  one  made  any 
effort  to  do  so.  One  by  one  each  man  went  to  the  pack 
to  get  some  bread  and  meat. 

Then  they  waited  as  men  who  knew  not  what  they 
waited  for,  yet  hated  and  dreaded  it. 

Twilight  in  that  glen  was  naturally  a  strange,  veiled 
condition  of  the  atmosphere.  It  was  a  merging  of  shade 
and  light,  which  two  seemed  to  make  gray,  creeping 
shadows. 

Suddenly  a  snorting  and  stamping  of  the  horses  startled 
the  men. 

"Somethin'  scared  the  hosses,"  said  Anson,  rising. 
"Come  on." 

Moze  accompanied  him,  and  they  disappeared  in  the 
gloom.  More  trampling  of  hoofs  was  heard,  then  a  crack- 
ing of  brush,  and  the  deep  voices  of  men.  At  length 
the  two  outlaws  returned,  leading  three  of  the  horses, 
which  they  haltered  in  the  open  glen. 

The  camp-fire  light  showed  Anson's  face  dark  and 
serious. 

"Jim,  them  hosses  are  wilder 'n  deer,"  he  said.  "I 
ketched  mine,  an'  Moze  got  two.  But  the  rest  worked 
away  whenever  we  come  close.  Some  varmint  has  scared 
them  bad.  We  all  gotta  rustle  out  thar  quick." 

Wilson  rose,  shaking  his  head  doubtfully.  And  at  that 
moment  the  quiet  air  split  to  a  piercing,  horrid  neigh  of  a 

323 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

terrified  horse.  Prolonged  to  a  screech,  it  broke  and 
ended.  Then  followed  snorts  of  fright,  pound  and  crack 
and  thud  of  hoofs,  and  crash  of  brush;  then  a  gathering 
thumping,  crashing  roar,  split  by  piercing  sounds. 

"Stampede!"  yelled  Anson,  and  he  ran  to  hold  his  own 
horse,  which  he  had  haltered  right  in  camp.  It  was  big 
and  wild-looking,  and  now  reared  and  plunged  to  break 
away.  Anson  just  got  there  in  time,  and  then  it  took  all 
his  weight  to  pull  the  horse  down.  Not  until  the  crash- 
ing, snorting,  pounding  mele'e  had  subsided  and  died  away 
Over  the  rim  of  the  glen  did  Anson  dare  leave  his  fright- 
ened favorite. 

"Gone!  Our  horses  are  gone!  Did  you  hear  'em?" 
he  exclaimed,  blankly. 

"Shore.  They're  a  cut-up  an'  crippled  bunch  by  now," 
replied  Wilson. 

"  Boss,  we'll  never  git  'em  back,  not  'n  a  nundred  years,'" 
declared  Moze. 

"Thet  settles  us,  Snake  Anson,"  stridently  added  Shady 
Jones.  " Them  hosses  are  gone!  You  can  kiss  your  hand 
to  them.  .  .  .  They  wasn't  hobbled.  They  hed  an  orful 
scare.  They  split  on  thet  stampede  an'  they'll  never  git 
together.  .  .  .  See  what  you've  fetched  us  to!" 

Under  the  force  of  this  triple  arraignment  tne  outlaw 
leader  dropped  to  his  seat,  staggered  and  silenced.  In  fact, 
silence  fell  upon  all  the  men  and  likewise  enfolded  the  glen. 

Night  set  in  jet-black,  dismal,  lonely,  without  a  star. 
Faintly  the  wind  moaned.  Weirdly  the  brook  babbled 
through  its  strange  chords  to  end  in  the  sound  that  was 
hollow.  It  was  never  the  same — a  rumble,  as  if  faint, 
distant  thunder — a  deep  gurgle,  as  of  water  drawn  into 
a  vortex — a  rolling,  as  of  a  stone  in  swift  current.  The 
black  cliff  was  invisible,  yet  seemed  to  have  many  weird 
faces;  the  giant  pines  loomed  spectral ;  the  shadows  were 
thick,  moving,  changing.  Flickering  lights  from  the 
camp-fire  circled  the  huge  trunks  and  played  fantastically 
over  the  brooding  men.  This  camp-fire  did  not  burn  or 

324 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

blaze  cheerily;  it  had  no  glow,  no  sputter,  no  white  heart, 
no  red,  living  embers.  One  by  one  the  outlaws,  as  if  with 
common  consent,  tried  the:r  hands  at  making  the  fire 
burn  aright.  What  little  wood  had  been  collected  was 
old;  it  would  burn  up  with  false  flare,  only  to  die  quickly. 

After  a  while  not  one  of  the  outlaws  spoke  or  stirred. 
Not  one  smoked.  Their  gloomy  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
fire.  Each  one  was  concerned  with  his  own  thoughts, 
his  own  lonely  soul  unconsciously  full  of  a  doubt  of  the 
future.  That  brooding  hour  severed  him  from  comrade. 

At  night  nothing  seemed  the  same  as  it  was  by  day. 
With  success  and  plenty,  with  full-blooded  action  past 
and  more  in  store,  these  outlaws  were  as  different  from 
their  present  state  as  this  black  night  was  different  from 
the  bright  day  they  waited  for.  Wilson,  though  he  played 
a  deep  game  of  deceit  for  the  sake  of  the  helpless  girl — 
and  thus  did  not  have  haunting  and  superstitious  fears  on 
her  account — was  probably  more  conscious  of  impending 
catastrophe  than  any  of  them. 

The  evil  they  had  done  spoke  in  the  voice  of  nature,  out 
of  the  darkness,  and  was  interpreted  by  each  according 
to  his  hopes  and  fears.  Fear  was  their  predominating 
sense.  For  years  they  had  lived  with  some  species  of  fear 
— of  honest  men  or  vengeance,  of  pursuit,  of  starvation, 
of  lack  of  drink  or  gold,  of  blood  and  death,  of  stronger 
men,  of  luck,  of  chance,  of  fate,  of  mysterious  nameless 
force.  Wilson  was  the  type  of  fearless  spirit,  but  he  en- 
dured the  most  gnawing  and  implacable  fear  of  all — that 
of  himself — that  he  must  inevitably  fall  to  deeds  beneath 
his  manhood. 

So  they  hunched  around  the  camp-fire,  brooding  be- 
cause hope  was  at  lowest  ebb ;  listening  because  the  weird, 
black  silence,  with  its  moan  of  wind  and  hollow  laugh  of 
brook,  compelled  them  to  hear;  waiting  for  sleep,  for  the 
hours  to  pass,  for  whatever  was  to  come. 

And  it  was  Anson  who  caught  the  first  intimation  of  an 
impending  doom. 

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CHAPTER  XXIII 

"  T  ISTEN!" 

LJ  Anson  whispered  tensely.  His  poise  was  motion- 
less, his  eyes  roved  everywhere.  He  held  up  a  shaking, 
bludgy  finger,  to  command  silence. 

A  third  and  stranger  sound  accompanied  the  low,  weird 
moan  of  the  wind,  and  the  hollow  mockery  of  the  brook — 
and  it  seemed  a  barely  perceptible,  exquisitely  delicate 
wail  or  whine.  It  filled  in  the  lulls  between  the  other 
sounds. 

"If  thet's  some  varmint  he's  close,"  whispered  Anson. 

"But  shore,  it's  far  off,"  said  Wilson. 

Shady  Jones  and  Moze  divided  their  opinions  in  the 
same  way. 

All  breathed  freer  when  the  wail  ceased,  relaxing  to 
their  former  lounging  positions  around  the  fire.  An  im- 
penetrable wall  of  blackness  circled  the  pale  space  lighted 
by  the  camp-fire;  and  this  circle  contained  the  dark, 
somber  group  of  men  in  the  center,  the  dying  camp-fire, 
and  a  few  spectral  trunks  of  pines  and  the  tethered  horses 
on  the  outer  edge.  The  horses  scarcely  moved  from  their 
tracks,  and  their  erect,  alert  heads  attested  to  their  sen- 
sitiveness to  the  peculiarities  of  the  night. 

Then,  at  an  unusually  quiet  lull  the  strange  sound 
gradually  arose  to  a  wailing  whine. 

"It's  thet  crazy  wench  cryin1,"  declared  the  outlaw 
leader. 

Apparently  his  allies  accepted  that  statement  with  as 
much  relief  as  they  had  expressed  for  the  termination  of 

the  sound. 

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THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"Shore,  thet  must  be  it,"  agreed  Jim  Wilson,  gravely. 

"We'll  git  a  lot  of  sleep  with  thet  gurl  whinin*  all 
night,"  growled  Shady  Jones. 

"She  gives  me  the  creeps,"  said  Moze. 

Wilson  got  up  to  resume  his  pondering  walk,  head  bent, 
hands  behind  his  back,  a  grim,  realistic  figure  of  per- 
turbation. 

"Jim — set  down.  You  make  me  nervous,"  said  Anson, 
irritably. 

Wilson  actually  laughed,  but  low,  as  if  to  keep  his 
strange  mirth  well  confined. 

"Snake,  I'll  bet  you  my  hoss  an*  my  gun  ag'in'  a  bis- 
cuit thet  in  aboot  six  seconds  more  or  less  I'll  be  stampedin' 
like  them  hosses." 

Anson's  lean  jaw  dropped.  The  other  two  outlaws 
stared  with  round  eyes.  Wilson  was  not  drunk,  they 
evidently  knew;  but  what  he  really  was  appeared  a 
mystery. 

"Jim  Wilson,  are  you  showin'  yellow?"  queried  Anson, 
hoarsely. 

"Mebbe.  The  Lord  only  knows.  But  listen  heah.  .  .  . 
Snake,  you've  seen  an'  heard  people  croak?" 

"You  mean  cash  in — die?" 

"Shore." 

"Wai,  yes — a  couple  or  so,"  replied  Anson,  grimly. 

"But  you  never  seen  no  one  die  of  shock — of  an  orful 
scare?" 

"No,  I  reckon  I  never  did." 

"I  have.  An'  thet's  what's  ailin'  Jim  Wilson,"  and  he 
resumed  his  dogged  steps. 

Anson  and  his  two  comrades  exchanged  bewildered 
glances  with  one  another. 

"A-huh!  Say,  what's  thet  got  to  do  with  us  hyar?" 
asked  Anson,  presently. 

"Thet  gurl  is  dyin'!"  retorted  Wilson,  in  a  voice  crack- 
ing like  a  whip. 

The  three  outlaws  stiffened  in  their  seats,  incredulous, 

327 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

yet  irresistibly  swayed  by  emotions  that  stirred  to  this 
dark,  lonely,  ill-omened  hour. 

Wilson  trudged  to  the  edge  of  the  lighted  circle,  mut- 
tering to  himself,  and  came  back  again;  then  he  trudged 
farther,  this  time  almost  out  of  sight,  but  only  to  return; 
the  third  time  he  vanished  in  the  impenetrable  wall  of 
night.  The  three  men  scarcely  moved  a  muscle  as  they 
watched  the  place  where  he  had  disappeared.  In  a  few 
moments  he  came  stumbling  back. 

"Shore  she's  almost  gone,"  he  said,  dismally.  " It  took 
my  nerve,  but  I  felt  of  her  face.  .  .  .  Thet  orful  wail  is  her 
breath  chokin'  in  her  throat.  .  .  .  Like  a  death-rattle,  only 
long  instead  of  short." 

"Wai,  if  she's  gotta  croak  it's  good  she  gits  it  over 
quick,"  replied  Anson.  "  I  'ain't  hed  sleep  fer  three  nights. 
.  .  .  An'  what  I  need  is  whisky." 

"Snake,  thet's  gospel  you're  spoutin',"  remarked  Shady 
Jones,  morosely. 

The  direction  of  sound  in  the  glen  was  difficult  to  be 
assured  of,  but  any  man  not  stirred  to  a  high  pitch  of 
excitement  could  have  told  that  the  difference  in  volume 
of  this  strange  wail  must  have  been  caused  by  different 
distances  and  positions.  Also,  when  it  was  loudest,  it  was 
most  like  a  whine.  But  these  outlaws  heard  with  their 
consciences. 

At  last  it  ceased  abruptly. 

Wilson  again  left  the  group  to  be  swallowed  up  by  the 
night.  His  absence  was  longer  than  usual,  but  he  re- 
turned hurriedly. 

"She's  daid!"  he  exclaimed,  solemnly.  "Thet  inno- 
cent kid — who  never  harmed  no  one — an'  who'd  make 
any  man  better  fer  seein'  her — she's  daid!  .  .  .  Anson, 
you've  shore  a  heap  to  answer  fer  when  your  time 
comes." 

"What's  eatin'  you?"  demanded  the  leader,  angriJy, 
"Her  blood  ain't  on  my  hands." 

"It  shore  is,"  shouted  Wilson,  shaking  his  hand  at 

328 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Anson.  "An'  you'll  hev  to  take  your  medicine.  I  felt 
thet  comin'  all  along.  An'  I  feel  some  more." 

"Aw!  She's  jest  gone  to  sleep,"  declared  Anson,  shak- 
ing his  long  frame  as  he  rose.  "Gimme  a  light." 

"Boss,  you're  plumb  off  to  go  near  a  dead  gurl  thet's 
jest  died  crazy,"  protested  Shady  Jones. 

"Off!  Haw!  Haw!  Who  ain't  off  in  this  outfit,  I'd  like 
to  know?"  Anson  possessed  himself  of  a  stick  blazing 
at  one  end,  and  with  this  he  stalked  off  toward  the  lean-to 
where  the  girl  was  supposed  to  be  dead.  His  gaunt  figure, 
lighted  by  the  torch,  certainly  fitted  the  weird,  black 
surroundings.  And  it  was  seen  that  once  near  the  girl's 
shelter  he  proceeded  more  slowly,  until  he  halted.  He 
bent  to  peer  inside. 

"SHE'S  GONE!"  he  yelled,  in  harsh,  shaken  accents. 

Then  the  torch  burned  out,  leaving  only  a  red  glow. 
He  whirled  it  about,  but  the  blaze  did  not  rekindle.  His 
comrades,  peering  intently,  lost  sight  of  his  tall  form  and 
the  end  of  the  red-ended  stick.  Darkness  like  pitch 
swallowed  him.  For  a  moment  no  sound  intervened. 
Again  the  moan  of  wind,  the  strange  little  mocking  hol- 
low roar,  dominated  the  place.  Then  there  came  a  rush 
of  something,  perhaps  of  air,  like  the  soft  swishing  of 
spruce  branches  swinging  aside.  Dull,  thudding  footsteps 
followed  it.  Anson  came  running  back  to  the  fire.  His 
aspect  was  wild,  his  face  pale,  his  eyes  were  fierce  and  start- 
ing from  their  sockets.  He  had  drawn  his  gun. 

"Did — ye — see  er  hear — any  thin'?"  he  panted,  peering 
back,  then  all  around,  and  at  last  at  his  man. 

"No.  An'  I  shore  was  lookin'  an'  listenin',"  replied 
Wilson. 

"Boss,  there  wasn't  nothin',"  declared  Moze. 

"I  ain't  so  sartin,"  said  Shady  Jones,  with  doubtful, 
staring  eyes.  "  I  believe  I  heerd  a  rustlin'." 

"She  wasn't  there!"  ejaculated  Anson,  in  wondering 
awe.  "She's  gone!  .  .  .  My  torch  went  out.  I  couldn't 
see.  An'  jest  then  I  felt  somethin'  was  passin'.  Fast! 

329 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

I  jerked  'round.  All  was  black,  an1  yet  if  I  didn't  see  a 
big  gray  streak  I'm  crazier  'n  thet  gurl.  But  I  couldn't 
swear  to  anythin'  but  a  rushin'  of  wind.  I  felt  thet." 

"Gone!"  exclaimed  Wilson,  in  great  alarm.  "Fellars, 
if  thet's  so,  then  mebbe  she  wasn't  daid  an'  she  wandered 
off.  ...  But  she  was  daid!  Her  heart  hed  quit  beatin'. 
I'll  swear  to  thet." 

"I  move  to  break  camp,"  said  Shady  Jones,  gruffly, 
and  he  stood  up.  Moze  seconded  that  move  by  an  ex- 
pressive flash  of  his  black  visage. 

"Jim,  if  she's  dead — an'  gone — what  'n  hell's  come 
off?"  huskily  asked  Anson.  "It  only  seems  thet  way. 
We're  all  worked  up Let's  talk  sense." 

"Anson,  shore  there's  a  heap  you  an'  me  don't  know," 
replied  Wilson.  "  The  world  come  to  an  end  once.  Wai, 
it  can  come  to  another  end.  ...  I  tell  you  I  ain't  sur- 
prised—" 

"Thar!"  cried  Anson,  whirling,  with  his  gun  leaping 
out. 

Something  huge,  shadowy,  gray  against  the  black 
rushed  behind  the  men  and  trees;  and  following  it  came 
a  perceptible  acceleration  of  the  air. 

"Shore,  Snake,  there  wasn't  nothin',"  said  Wilson, 
presently. 

"I  heerd,"  whispered  Shady  Jones. 

"It  was  only  a  breeze  blowin'  thet  smoke,"  rejoined 
Moze. 

"I'd  bet  my  soul  somethin'  went  back  of  me,"  declared 
Anson,  glaring  into  the  void. 

"Listen  an'  let's  make  shore,"  suggested  Wilson. 

The  guilty,  agitated  faces  of  the  outlaws  showed  plain 
enough  in  the  flickering  light  for  each  to  see  a  convicting 
dread  in  his  fellow.  Like  statues  they  stood,  watching 
and  listening. 

Few  sounds  stirred  in  the  strange  silence.  Now  and 
then  the  horses  heaved  heavily,  but  stood  still;  a  dismal, 
dreary  note  of  the  wind  in  the  pines  vied  with  a  hollow 

330 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

laugh  of  the  brook.  And  these  low  sounds  only  fastened 
attention  upon  the  quality  of  the  silence.  A  breathing, 
lonely  spirit  of  solitude  permeated  the  black  dell.  Like 
a  pit  of  unplumbed  depths  the  dark  night  yawned.  An 
evil  conscience,  listening  there,  could  have  heard  the  most 
peaceful,  beautiful,  and  mournful  sounds  of  nature  only 
as  strains  of  a  calling  hell. 

Suddenly  the  silent,  oppressive,  surcharged  air  split  to 
a  short,  piercing  scream. 

Anson's  big  horse  stood  up  straight,  pawing  the  air, 
and  came  down  with  a  crash.  The  other  horses  shook 
with  terror. 

"Wasn't — thet — a  cougar?"  whispered  Anson,  thickly. 

"Thet  was  a  woman's  scream,"  replied  Wilson,  and  he 
appeared  to  be  shaking  like  a  leaf  in  the  wind. 

"Then — I  figgered  right — the  kid's  alive — wanderin' 
around — an*  she  let  out  thet  orful  scream,"  said  Anson. 

"Wanderin'  'round,  yes — but  she's  daid!" 

"My  Gawd!  it  ain't  possible!" 

"Wai,  if  she  ain't  wanderin'  round  daid  she's  almost 
daid,"  replied  Wilson.  And  he  began  to  whisper  to  him- 
self. 

"If  I'd  only  knowed  what  thet  deal  meant  I'd  hev 
plugged  Beasley  instead  of  listenin'.  .  .  .  An'  I  ought  to 
hev  knocked  thet  kid  on  the  head  an'  made  sartin  she'd 
croaked.  If  she  goes  screamin'  'round  thet  way — " 

His  voice  failed  as  there  rose  a  thin,  splitting,  high-* 
pointed  shriek,  somewhat  resembling  the  first  scream, 
only  less  wild.  It  came  apparently  from  the  cliff. 

From  another  point  in  the  pitch-black  glen  rose  the 
wailing,  terrible  cry  of  a  woman  in  agony.  Wild,  haunt- 
ing, mournful  wail! 

Anson's  horse,  loosing  the  halter,  plunged  back,  almost 
falling  over  a  slight  depression  in  the  rocky  ground.  The 
outlaw  caught  him  and  dragged  him  nearer  the  fire.  The 
other  horses  stood  shaking  and  straining.  Moze  ran  be- 
tween them  and  held  them.  Shady  Jones  threw  green 

331 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

brush  on  the  fire.  With  sputter  and  crackle  a  blaze 
started,  showing  Wilson  standing  tragically,  his  arms  out, 
facing  the  black  shadows. 

The  strange,  live  shriek  was  not  repeated.  But  the 
cry,  like  that  of  a  woman  in  her  death-throes,  pierced  the 
silence  again.  It  left  a  quivering  ring  that  softly  died 
away.  Then  the  stillness  clamped  down  once  more  and 
the  darkness  seemed  to  thicken.  The  men  waited,  and 
when  they  had  begun  to  relax  the  cry  burst  out  appallingly 
close,  right  behind  the  trees.  It  was  human — the  per- 
sonification of  pain  and  terror — the  tremendous  struggle 
of  precious  life  against  horrible  death.  So  pure,  so  ex- 
quisite, so  wonderful  was  the  cry  that  the  listeners 
writhed  as  if  they  saw  an  innocent,  tender,  beautiful 
girl  torn  frightfully  before  their  eyes.  It  was  full  of 
suspense;  it  thrilled  for  death;  its  marvelous  potency 
was  the  wild  note — that  beautiful  and  ghastly  note  of 
self-preservation. 

In  sheer  desperation  the  outlaw  leader  fired  his  gun  at 
the  black  wall  whence  the  cry  came.  Then  he  had  to 
fight  his  horse  to  keep  him  from  plunging  away.  Follow- 
ing the  shot  was  an  interval  of  silence;  the  horses  became 
tractable;  the  men  gathered  closer  to  the  fire,  with  the 
halters  still  held  firmly. 

"  If  it  was  a  cougar — thet  'd  scare  him  off,"  said  Anson. 

"Shore,  but  it  ain't  a  cougar,"  replied  Wilson.  "Wait 
an'  see!" 

They  all  waited,  listening  with  ears  turned  to  different 
points,  eyes  roving  everywhere,  afraid  of  their  very 
shadows.  Once  more  the  moan  of  wind,  the  mockery  of 
brook,  deep  gurgle,  laugh  and  babble,  dominated  the 
silence  of  the  glen. 

"Boss,  let's  shake  this  spooky  hole,"  whispered  Moze. 

The  suggestion  attracted  Anson,  and  he  pondered  it 
while  slowly  shaking  his  head. 

"We've  only  three  hosses.  An'  mine '11  take  ridin' — 
after  them  squalls,"  replied  the  leader.  "We've  got 

332 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

packs,  too.  An*  hell  'ain't  nothin'  on  this  place  fer  beinr 
dark." 

"No  matter.  Let's  go.  I'll  walk  an'  lead  the  way," 
said  Moze,  eagerly.  "I  got  sharp  eyes.  You  f ellars  can 
ride  an'  carry  a  pack.  We'll  git  out  of  here  an'  come  back 
in  daylight  fer  the  rest  of  the  outfit." 

"Anson,  I'm  keen  fer  thet  myself,"  declared  Shady 
Jones. 

"Jim,  what  d'ye  say  to  thet?"  queried  Anson.  "Rus- 
tlin'  out  of  this  black  hole?" 

"Shore  it's  a  grand  idee,"  agreed  Wilson. 

"Thet  was  a  cougar,"  avowed  Anson,  gathering  courage 
as  the  silence  remained  unbroken.  "But  jest  the  same  it 
was  as  tough  on  me  as  if  it  hed  been  a  woman  screamin* 
over  a  blade  twistin'  in  her  gizzards." 

"Snake,  shore  you  seen  a  woman  heah  lately?"  de- 
liberately asked  Wilson. 

"Reckon  I  did.     Thet  kid,"  replied  Anson,  dubiously. 

"Wai,  you  seen  her  go  crazy,  didn't  you?" 

"Yes." 

"An'  she  wasn't  heah  when  you  went  huntin'  fer  her?" 

"Correct." 

"Wai,  if  thet's  so,  what  do  you  want  to  blab  about 
cougars  fer?" 

Wilson's  argument  seemed  incontestable.  Shady  and 
Moze  nodded  gloomily  and  shifted  restlessly  from  foot  to 
foot.  Anson  dropped  his  head. 

"No  matter — if  we  only  don't  hear — "  he  began,  sud- 
denly to  grow  mute. 

Right  upon  them,  from  some  place,  just  out  the  circle 
of  light,  rose  a  scream,  by  reason  of  its  proximity  the  most 
piercing  and  agonizing  yet  heard,  simply  petrifying  the 
group  until  the  peal  passed.  Anson's  huge  horse  reared, 
and  with  a  snort  of  terror  lunged  in  tremendous  leap, 
straight  out.  He  struck  Anson  with  thudding  impact, 
knocking  him  over  the  rocks  into  the  depression  back  of 
the  camp-fire,  and  plunging  after  him.  Wilson  had  made 


~THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

a  flying  leap  just  in  time  to  avoid  being  struck,  and  he 
turned  to  see  Anson  go  down.  There  came  a  crash,  a 
groan,  and  then  the  strike  and  pound  of  hoofs  as  the 
horse  struggled  up.  Apparently  he  had  rolled  over  his 
master. 

"Help,  fellars!"  yelled  Wilson,  quick  to  leap  down  over 
the  little  bank,  and  in  the  dim  light  to  grasp  the  halter. 
The  three  men  dragged  the  horse  out  and  securely  tied 
him  close  to  a  tree.  That  done,  they  peered  down  into 
the  depression.  Anson's  form  could  just  barely  be  dis- 
tinguished in  the  gloom.  He  lay  stretched  out.  Another 
groan  escaped  him. 

"Shore  I'm  scared  he's  hurt,"  said  Wilson. 

"Hoss  rolled  right  on  top  of  him.  An'  thet  boss's 
heavy,"  declared  Moze. 

They  got  down  and  knelt  beside  their  leader.  In  the 
darkness  his  face  looked  dull  gray.  His  breathing  was 
not  right. 

"Snake,  old  man,  you  ain't — hurt?"  asked  Wilson, 
with  a  tremor  in  his  voice.  Receiving  no  reply,  he  said 
to  his  comrades,  "Lay  hold  an'  we'll  heft  him  up  where 
we  can  see." 

The  three  men  carefully  lifted  Anson  up  on  the  bank 
and  laid  him  near  the  fire  in  the  light.  Anson  was  con- 
scious. His  face  was  ghastly.  Blood  showed  on  his  lips. 

Wilson  knelt  beside  him.  The  other  outlaws  stood  up, 
and  with  one  dark  gaze  at  one  another  damned  Anson's 
chance  of  life.  And  on  the  instant  rose  that  terrible  dis- 
tressing scream  of  acute  agony — like  that  of  a  woman 
being  dismembered.  Shady  Jones  whispered  something 
to  Moze.  Then  they  stood  up,  gazing  down  at  their 
fallen  leader. 

"Tell  me  where  you're  hurt?"  asked  Wilson. 

"He — smashed — my  chest,"  said  Anson,  in  a  broken, 
strangled  whisper. 

Wilson's  deft  hands  opened  the  outlaw's  shirt  and  felt 
of  his  chest. 

334 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"No.  Shore  your  breast-bone  ain't  smashed,"  replied 
Wilson,  hopefully.  And  he  began  to  run  his  hand  around 
one  side  of  Anson's  body  and  then  the  other.  Abruptly 
he  stopped,  averted  his  gaze,  then  slowly  ran  the  hand  all 
along  that  side.  Anson's  ribs  had  been  broken  and  crushed 
in  by  the  height  of  the  horse.  He  was  bleeding  at  the 
mouth,  and  his  slow,  painful  expulsions  of  breath  brought 
a  bloody  froth,  which  showed  that  the  broken  bones  had 
penetrated  the  lungs.  An  injury  sooner  or  later  fatal! 

"Pard,  you  busted  a  rib  or  two,"  said  Wilson. 

"Aw,  Jim — it  must  be — wuss  'n  thet!"  he  whispered. 
"I'm — in  orful — pain.  An'  I  can't — git  any — breath." 

"Mebbe  you'll  be  better,"  said  Wilson,  with  a  cheer- 
fulness his  face  belied. 

Moze  bent  close  over  Anson,  took  a  short  scrutiny  of 
that  ghastly  face,  at  the  blood-stained  lips,  and  the  lean 
hands  plucking  at  nothing.  Then  he  jerked  erect. 

"Shady,  he's  goin*  to  cash.     Let's  clear  out  of  this." 

"I'm  yours  pertickler  previous,"  replied  Jones. 

Both  turned  away.  They  untied  the  two  horses  and 
led  them  up  to  where  the  saddles  lay.  Swiftly  the  blankets 
went  on,  swiftly  the  saddles  swung  up,  swiftly  the  cinches 
snapped.  Anson  lay  gazing  up  at  Wilson,  comprehend- 
ing this  move.  And  Wilson  stood  strangely  grim  and 
silent,  somehow  detached  coldly  from  that  self  of  the  past 
few  hours. 

"Shady,  you  grab  some  bread  an*  111  pack  a  hunk  of 
meat,"  said  Moze.  Both  men  came  near  the  fire,  into  the 
light,  within  ten  feet  of  where  the  leader  lay. 

"Fellars — you  ain't — slopin'?"  he  whispered,  in  husky 
amaze. 

"  Boss,  we  air  thet  same.  We  can't  do  you  no  good  an' 
this  hole  ain't  healthy,"  replied  Moze. 

Shady  Jones  swung  himself  astride  his  horse,  all  about 
him  sharp,  eager,  strung. 

"Moze,  I'll  tote  the  grub  an'  you  lead  out  of  hyar,  till 
we  git  past  the  wust  timber,"  he  said. 

335 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Aw,  Moze — you  wouldn't  leave — Jim  hyar — alone," 
implored  Anson. 

"Jim  can  stay  till  he  rots,"  retorted  Moze.  "I've  hed 
enough  of  this  hole." 

"But,  Moze — it  ain't  square — "  panted  Anson.  "Jim 
wouldn't — leave  me.  I'd  stick — by  you.  .  .  .  I'll  make 
it — all  up  to  you." 

"Snake,  you're  goin*  to  cash,"  sardonically  returned 
Moze. 

A  current  leaped  all  through  Anson's  stretched  frame. 
His  ghastly  face  blazed.  That  was  the  great  and  the  ter- 
rible moment  which  for  long  had  been  in  abeyance.  Wil- 
son had  known  grimly  that  it  would  come,  by  one  means 
or  another.  Anson  had  doggedly  and  faithfully  struggled 
against  the  tide  of  fatal  issues.  Moze  and  Shady  Jones, 
deep  locked  in  their  self -centered  motives,  had  not  realized 
the  inevitable  trend  of  their  dark  lives. 

Anson,  prostrate  as  he  was,  swiftly  drew  his  gun  and 
shot  Moze.  Without  sound  or  movement  of  hand  Moze 
fell.  Then  the  plunge  of  Shady 's  horse  caused  Anson's 
second  shot  to  miss.  A  quick  third  shot  brought  no 
apparent  result  but  Shady's  cursing  resort  to  his  own 
weapon.  He  tried  to  aim  from  his  plunging  horse.  His 
bullets  spattered  dust  and  gravel  over  Anson.  Then  Wil- 
son's long  arm  stretched  and  his  heavy  gun  banged. 
Shady  collapsed  in  the  saddle,  and  the  frightened  horse, 
throwing  him,  plunged  out  of  the  circle  of  light.  Thudding 
hoofs,  crashings  of  brush,  quickly  ceased. 

"Jim — did  you — git  him?"  whispered  Anson. 

"Shore  did,  Snake,"  was  the  slow,  halting  response. 
Jim  Wilson  must  have  sustained  a  sick  shudder  as  he 
replied.  Sheathing  his  gun,  he  folded  a  blanket  and  put 
it  under  Anson's  head. 

"Jim — my  feet — air  orful  cold,"  whispered  Anson. 

"Wai,  it's  gittin'  chilly,"  replied  Wilson,  and,  taking  a 
second  blanket,  he  laid  that  over  Anson's  limbs.  "Snake, 
I'm  feared  Shady  hit  you  once." 

336 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"A-huh!  But  not  so  I'd  care — much — if  I  hed — no 
wuss  hurt." 

"You  lay  still  now.  Reckon  Shady 's  hoss  stopped  out 
heah  a  ways.  An'  I'll  see." 

"Jim — I  'ain't  heerd — thet  scream  fer — a  little." 

"Shore  it's  gone.  .  .  .  Reckon  now  thet  was  a  cougar." 

"Iknowedit!" 

Wilson  stalked  away  into  the  darkness.  That  inky  wall 
did  not  seem  so  impenetrable  and  black  after  he  had 
gotten  out  of  the  circle  of  light.  He  proceeded  carefully 
and  did  not  make  any  missteps.  He  groped  from  tree  to 
tree  toward  the  cliff  and  presently  brought  up  against  a 
huge  flat  rock  as  high  as  his  head.  Here  the  darkness 
was  blackest,  yet  he  was  able  to  see  a  light  form  on  the 
rock. 

"Miss,  are  you  there — all  right?"  he  called,  softly. 

"Yes,  but  I'm  scared  to  death,"  she  whispered  in  reply. 

"Shore  it  wound  up  sudden.  Come  now.  I  reckon 
your  trouble's  over." 

He  helped  her  off  the  rock,  and,  finding  her  unsteady  on 
her  feet,  he  supported  her  with  one  arm  and  held  the  other 
out  in  front  of  him  to  feel  for  objects.  Foot  by  foot  they 
worked  out  from  under  the  dense  shadow  of  the  cliff,  fol- 
lowing the  course  of  the  little  brook.  It  babbled  and 
gurgled,  and  almost  drowned  the  low  whistle  Wilson  sent 
out.  The  girl  dragged  heavily  upon  him  now,  evidently 
weakening.  At  length  he  reached  the  little  open  patch 
at  the  head  of  the  ravine.  Halting  here,  he  whistled.  An 
answer  came  from  somewhere  behind  him  and  to  the  right. 
Wilson  waited,  with  the  girl  hanging  on  his  arm. 

" Dale's  heah,"  he  said.  "An'  don't  you  keel  over  now 
^after  all  the  nerve  you  hed." 

A  swishing  of  brush,  a  step,  a  soft,  padded  footfall;  a 
looming,  dark  figure,  and  a  long,  low  gray  shape,  stealthily 
moving — it  was  the  last  of  these  that  made  Wilson  jump. 

"Wilson!"  came  Dale's  subdued  voice. 

"Heah.  I've  got  her,  Dale.  Safe  an*  sound,"  replied 

337 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Wilson,  stepping  toward  the  tall  form.  And  he  put  the 
drooping  girl  into  Dale's  arms. 

"Bo!  Bo!  You're  all  right?"  Dale's  deep  voice  was 
tremulous. 

She  roused  up  to  seize  him  and  to  utter  little  cries  of 
joy. 

"Oh,  Dale!  .  .  .Oh,  thank  Heaven!  I'm  ready  to  drop 
now.  .  .  .  Hasn't  it  been  a  night — an  adventure?  ...  I'm 
well — safe — sound. . . .  Dale,  we  owe  it  to  this  Jim  Wilson." 

"Bo,  I — we'll  all  thank  him — all  our  lives,"  replied  Dale. 
"Wilson,  you're  a  man!  ...  If  you'll  shake  that  gang — " 

"  Dale,  shore  there  ain't  much  of  a  gang  left,  onless  you 
let  Burt  git  away,"  replied  Wilson. 

"  I  didn't  kill  him — or  hurt  him.  But  I  scared  him  so 
I'll  bet  he's  runnin'  yet.  .  .  .  Wilson,  did  all  the  shootin' 
mean  a  fight?" 

"Tolerable." 

"  Oh,  Dale,  it  was  terrible!     I  saw  it  all.     I—" 

"  Wa  Miss,  you  can  tell  him  after  I  go.  ...  I'm  wishin' 
you  good  luck." 

His  voice  was  a  cool,  easy  drawl,  slightly  tremulous. 

The  girl's  face  flashed  white  in  the  gloom.  She  pressed 
against  the  outlaw — wrung  his  hands. 

"Heaven  help  you,  Jim  Wilson!  You  are  from  Texas \ 
...  I'll  remember  you — pray  for  you  all  my  life! " 

Wilson  moved  away,  out  toward  the  pale  glow  of  light 
tinder  the  black  pines. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

A>  Helen  Rayner  watched  Dale  ride  away  on  a  quest 
perilous  to  him,  and  which  meant  almost  life  or 
death  for  her,  it  was  surpassing  strange  that  she  could 
think  of  nothing  except  the  thrilling,  tumultuous  moment 
when  she  had  put  her  arms  round  his  neck. 

It  did  not  matter  that  Dale — splendid  fellow  that  he 
was — had  made  the  ensuing  moment  free  of  shame  by 
taking  her  action  as  he  had  taken  it — the  fact  that  she  had 
actually  done  it  was  enough.  How  utterly  impossible  for 
her  to  anticipate  her  impulses  or  to  understand  them, 
once  they  were  acted  upon  i  Confounding  realization  then 
was  that  when  Dale  returned. with  her  sister,  Helen  knew 
she  would  do  the  same  thing  over  again ! 

"If  I  do — I  won't  be  two-faced  about  it,"  she  solilo- 
quized, and  a  hot  blush  flamed  her  cheeks. 

She  watched  Dale  until  he  rode  out  of  sight. 

When  he  had  gone,  worry  and  dread  replaced  this  other 
confusing  emotion.  She  turned  to  the  business  of  meeting 
events.  Before  supper  she  packed  her  valuables  and 
books,  papers,  and  clothes,  together  with  Bo's,  and  had 
them  in  readiness  so  if  she  was  forced  to  vacate  the 
premises  she  would  have  her  personal  possessions. 

The  Mormon  boys  and  several  other  of  her  trusted  men 
slept  in  their  tarpaulin  beds  on  the  porch  of  the  ranch- 
house  that  night,  so  that  Helen  at  least  would  not  be  sur- 
prised. But  the  day  came,  with  its  manifold  duties  un- 
disturbed by  any  event.  And  it  passed  slowly  with  the 
leaden  feet  of  listening,  watching  vigilance. 

Carmichael  did  not  come  back,  nor  \v<s  there  news  of 

339 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

him  to  be  had.  The  last  known  of  him  had  been  late  the 
afternoon  of  the  preceding  day,  when  a  sheep-herder  had 
seen  him  far  out  on  the  north  range,  headed  for  the  hills. 
The  Beemans  reported  that  Roy's  condition  had  improved, 
and  also  that  there  was  a  subdued  excitement  of  suspense 
down  in  the  village. 

This  second  lonely  night  was  almost  unendurable  for 
Helen.  When  she  slept  it  was  to  dream  horrible  dreams; 
when  she  lay  awake  it  was  to  have  her  heart  leap  to  her 
throat  at  a  rustle  of  leaves  near  the  window,  and  to  be  in 
torture  of  imagination  as  to  poor  Bo's  plight.  A  thousand 
times  Helen  said  to  herself  that  Beasley  could  have  had 
the  ranch  and  welcome,  if  only  Bo  had  been  spared. 
Helen  absolutely  connected  her  enemy  with  her  sister's 
disappearance.  Riggs  might  have  been  a  means  to  it. 

Daylight  was  not  attended  by  so  many  fears;  there 
were  things  to  do  that  demanded  attention.  And  thus 
it  was  that  the  next  morning,  shortly  before  noon,  she  was 
recalled  to  her  perplexities  by  a  shouting  out  at  the  corrals 
and  a  galloping  of  horses  somewhere  near.  From  the 
window  she  saw  a  big  smoke. 

"Fire!  That  must  be  one  of  the  barns — the  old  one, 
farthest  out,"  she  said,  gazing  out  of  the  window.  " Some 
careless  Mexican  with  his  everlasting  cigarette!" 

Helen  resisted  an  impulse  to  go  out  and  see  what  had 
happened.  She  had  decided  to  stay  in  the  house.  But 
when  footsteps  sounded  on  the  porch  and  a  rap  on  the 
door,  she  unhesitatingly  opened  it.  Four  Mexicans  stood 
close.  One  of  them,  quick  as  thought,  flashed  a  hand  in 
to  grasp  her,  and  in  a  single  motion  pulled  her  across  the 
threshold. 

"No  hurt,  Sefiora,"  he  said,  and  pointed — making 
motions  she  must  go. 

Helen  did  not  need  to  be  told  what  this  visit  meant. 
Many  as  her  conjectures  had  been,  however,  she  had  not 
thought  of  Beasley  subjecting  her  to  this  outrage.  And 
her  blood  boiled. 

340 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"How  dare  you!"  she  said,  trembling  in  her  effort  to 
control  her  temper.  But  class,  authority,  voice  availed 
nothing  with  these  swarthy  Mexicans.  They  grinned. 
Another  laid  hold  of  Helen  with  dirty,  brown  hand.  She 
shrank  from  the  contact. 

"Let  go!"  she  burst  out,  furiously.  And  instinctively 
she  began  to  struggle  to  free  herself.  Then  they  all  took 
hold  of  her.  Helen's  dignity  might  never  have  been !  A 
burning,  choking  rush  of  blood  was  her  first  acquaintance 
with  the  terrible  passion  of  anger  that  was  her  inheritance 
from  the  Auchinclosses.  She  who  had  resolved  never  to 
lay  herself  open  to  indignity  now  fought  like  a  tigress. 
The  Mexicans,  jabbering  in  their  excitement,  had  all  they 
could  do,  until  the/  lifted  her  bodily  from  the  porch. 
They  handled  her  as  if  she  had  been  a  half-empty  sack  of 
corn.  One  holding  each  hand  and  foot  they  packed  her, 
with  dress  disarranged  and  half  torn  off,  down  the  path 
to  the  lane  and  down  the  lane  to  the  road.  There  they 
stood  upright  and  pushed  her  off  her  property. 

Through  half -blind  eyes  Helen  saw  them  guarding  the 
gateway,  ready  to  prevent  her  entrance.  She  staggered 
down  the  road  to  the  village.  It  seemed  she  made  her 
way  through  a  red  dimness — that  there  was  a  congestion 
in  her  brain — that  the  distance  to  Mrs.  Cass's  cottage 
was  insurmountable.  But  she  got  there,  to  stagger  up 
the  path,  to  hear  the  old  woman's  cry.  Dizzy,  faint,  sick, 
with  a  blackness  enveloping  all  she  looked  at,  Helen  felt 
herself  led  into  the  sitting-room  and  placed  in  the  big 
chair. 

Presently  sight  and  clearness  of  mind  returned  to  her. 
She  saw  Roy,  white  as  a  sheet,  questioning  her  with  ter- 
rible eyes.  The  old  woman  hung  murmuring  over  her, 
trying  to  comfort  her  as  well  as  fasten  the  disordered 
dress. 

"Four  greasers — packed  me  down — the  hill — threw  me 
off  my  ranch — into  the  road!"  panted  Helen. 

She  seemed  to  tell  this  also  to  her  own  consciousness 

34i 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

and  to  realize  the  mighty  wave  of  danger  that  shook  her 
whole  body. 

"If  I'd  known— I  would  have  killed  them!" 

She  exclaimed  that,  full-voiced  and  hard,  with  dry,  hot 
eyes  on  her  friends.  Roy  reached  out  to  take  her  hand, 
speaking  huskily.  Helen  did  not  distinguish  what  he 
said.  The  frightened  old  woman  knelt,  with  unsteady 
fingers  fumbling  over  the  rents  in  Helen's  dress.  The 
moment  came  when  Helen's  quivering  began  to  subside, 
when  her  blood  quieted  to  let  her  reason  sway,  when  she 
began  to  do  battle  with  her  rage,  and  slowly  to  take  fear- 
ful stock  of  this  consuming  peril  that  had  been  a  sleeping 
tigress  in  her  veins. 

"Oh,  Miss  Helen,  you  looked  so  tumble,  I  made  sure 
you  was  hurted,"  the  old  woman  was  saying. 

Helen  gazed  strangely  at  her  bruised  wrists,  at  the  one 
stocking  that  hung  down  over  her  shoe-top,  at  the  rent 
which  had  bared  her  shoulder  to  the  profane  gaze  of  those 
grinning,  beady-eyed  Mexicans. 

"My  body's — not  hurt,"  she  whispered. 

Roy  had  lost  some  of  his  whiteness,  and  where  his  eyes 
fcad  been  fierce  they  were  now  kind. 

"Wai,  Miss  Nell,  it's  lucky  no  harm's  done.  .  .  .  Now  if 
you'll  only  see  this  whole  deal  clear!  .  .  .  Not  let  it  spoil 
your  sweet  way  of  lookin'  an'  hopin'!  If  you  can  only 
see  what's  raw  in  this  West — an'  love  it  jest  the  same!" 

Helen  only  half  divined  his  meaning,  but  that  was 
enough  for  a  future  reflection.  The  West  was  beautiful, 
but  hard.  In  the  faces  of  these  friends  she  began  to  see 
the  meaning  of  the  keen,  sloping  lines,  and  shadows  of 
pain,  of  a  lean,  naked  truth,  cut  as  from  marble. 

"For  the  land's  sakes,  tell  us  all  about  it,"  importuned 
Mrs.  Cass. 

Whereupon  Helen  shut  her  eyes  and  told  the  brief 
narrative  of  her  expulsion  from  her  home. 

"Shore  we-all  expected  thet,"  said  Roy.  "An'  it's  jest 
as  well  you're  here  with  a  whole  skin.  Beaslev's  in  pos- 

34* 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

session  now  an'  I  reckon  we'd  all  sooner  hev  you  away 
from  thet  ranch." 

"But,  Roy,  I  won't  let  Beasley  stay  there,"  cried 
Helen. 

"  Miss  Nell,  shore  by  the  time  this  here  Pine  has  growed 
big  enough  fer  law  you'll  hev  gray  in  thet  pretty  hair. 
You  can't  put  Beasley  off  with  your  honest  an'  rightful 
claim.  Al  Auchincloss  was  a  hard  driver.  He  made 
enemies  an'  he  made  some  he  didn't  kill.  The  evil  men 
do  lives  after  them.  An'  you've  got  to  suffer  fer  ATs 
sins,  though  Al  was  as  good  as  any  man  who  ever  pros- 
pered in  these  parts." 

"Oh,  what  can  I  do?  I  won't  give  up.  I've  been 
robbed.  Can't  the  people  help  me?  Must  I  meekly  sit 
with  my  hands  crossed  while  that  half-breed  thief —  Oh, 
it's  unbelievable!" 

"  I  reckon  you'll  jest  hev  to  be  patient  fer  a  few  days," 
said  Roy,  calmly.  "It  '11  all  come  right  in  the  end." 

"  Roy !  You've  had  this  deal,  as  you  call  it,  all  worked 
out  in  mind  for  a  long  time!"  exclaimed  Helen. 

"Shore,  an'  I  'ain't  missed  a  reckonin'  yet." 

"Then  what  will  happen — in  a  few  days ? " 

"Nell  Rayner,  are  you  goin'  to  hev  some  spunk  an*  not 
lose  your  nerve  again  or  go  wild  out  of  your  head? " 

"I'll  try  to  be  brave,  but — but  I  must  be  prepared," 
she  replied,  tremulously. 

"Wai,  there's  Dale  an'  Las  Vegas  an'  me  fer  Beasley 
to  reckon  with.  An',  Miss  Nell,  his  chances  fer  long  life 
are  as  pore  as  his  chances  fer  heaven!" 

"But,  Roy,  I  don't  believe  in  deliberate  taking  of  life," 
replied  Helen,  shuddering.  "That's  against  my  religion. 
I  won't  allow  it.  ...  And — then — think,  Dale,  all  of  you 
— in  danger!" 

"Girl,  how  're  you  ever  goin'  to  help  yourself?  Shore 
you  might  hold  Dale  back,  if  you  love  him,  an'  swear  you 
won't  give  yourself  to  him.  .  .  .  An'  I  reckon  I'd  respect 
your  religion,  if  you  was  goin'  to  suffer  through  me.  8  .  . 

343 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

But  not  Dale  nor  yo-a. — nor  Bo — nor  love  or  heaven  or 
hell  can  ever  stop  thet  cowboy  Las  Vegas!" 

"  Oh,  if  Dale  brings  Bo  back  to  me — what  will  I  care  for 
my  ranch?"  murmured  Helen. 

"Reckon  you'll  only  begin  to  care  when  thet  happens. 
Your  big  hunter  has  got  to  be  put  to  work,"  replied  Roy, 
with  his  keen  smile. 

Before  noon  that  day  the  baggage  Helen  had  packed 
at  home  was  left  on  the  porch  of  Widow  Cass's  cottage, 
and  Helen's  anxious  need  of  the  hour  was  satisfied.  She 
was  made  comfortable  in  the  old  woman's  one  spare  room, 
and  she  set  herself  the  task  of  fortitude  and  endurance. 

To  her  surprise,  many  of  Mrs.  Cass's  neighbors  came 
unobtrusively  to  the  back  door  of  the  little  cottage  and 
made  sympathetic  inquiries.  They  appeared  a  subdued 
and  apprehensive  group,  and  whispered  to  one  another 
as  they  left.  Helen  gathered  from  their  visits  a  convic- 
tion that  the  wives  of  the  men  dominated  by  Beasley 
believed  no  good  could  come  of  this  high-handed  taking 
over  of  the  ranch.  Indeed,  Helen  found  at  the  end  of 
the  day  that  a  strength  had  been  borne  of  her  misfortune. 

The  next  day  Roy  informed  her  that  his  brother  John 
had  come  down  the  preceding  night  with  the  news  of 
Beasley's  descent  upon  the  ranch.  Not  a  shot  had  been 
fired,  and  the  only  damage  done  was  that  of  the  burning 
of  a  hay-filled  barn.  This  had  been  set  on  fire  to  attract 
Helen's  men  to  one  spot,  where  Beasley  had  ridden  down 
upon  them  with  three  times  their  number.  He  had  boldly 
ordered  them  off  the  land,  unless  they  wanted  to  acknowl- 
edge him  boss  and  remain  there  in  his  service.  The  three 
Beemans  had  stayed,  having  planned  that  just  in  this 
event  they  might  be  valuable  to  Helen's  interests.  Beas- 
ley had  ridden  down  into  Pine  the  same  as  upon  any  other 
day.  Roy  reported  also  news  which  had  come  in  that 
morning,  how  Beasley's  crowd  had  celebrated  late  the 
trght  before. 

344 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

The  second  and  third  and  fourth  days  endlessly  wore 
away,  and  Helen  believed  they  had  made  her  old.  At 
night  she  lay  awake  most  of  the  time,  thinking  and  pray- 
ing, but  during  the  afternoon  she  got  some  sleep.  She 
could  think  of  nothing  and  talk  of  nothing  except  her 
sister,  and  Dale's  chances  of  saving  her. 

"Well,  shore  you  pay  Dale  a  pore  compliment,"  finally 
protested  the  patient  Roy.  "I  tell  you — Milt  Dale  can 
do  anythin'  he  wants  to  do  in  the  woods.  You  can  believe 
thet.  .  .  .  But  I  reckon  he'll  run  chances  after  he  comes 
back." 

This  significant  speech  thrilled  Helen  with  its  assurance 
of  hope,  and  made  her  blood  curdle  at  the  implied  peril 
awaiting  the  hunter. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  fifth  day  Helen  was  abruptly 
awakened  from  her  nap.  The  sun  had  almost  set.  She 
heard  voices — the  shrill,  cackling  notes  of  old  Mrs.  Cass, 
high  in  excitement,  a  deep  voice  that  made  Helen  tingle 
all  over,  a  girl's  laugh,  broken  but  happy.  There  were 
footsteps  and  stamping  of  hoofs.  Dale  had  brought  Bo 
back!  Helen  knew  it.  She  grew  very  weak,  and  had  to 
force  herself  to  stand  erect.  Her  heart  began  to  pound 
in  her  very  ears.  A  sweet  and  perfect  joy  suddenly 
flooded  her  soul.  She  thanked  God  her  prayers  had  been 
answered.  Then  suddenly  alive  with  sheer  mad  physical 
gladness,  she  rushed  out. 

She  was  just  in  time  to  see  Roy  Beeman  stalk  out  as  if 
he  had  never  been  shot,  and  with  a  yell  greet  a  big,  gray- 
clad,  gray-faced  man — Dale. 

"Howdy,  Roy!  Glad  to  see  you  up,"  said  Dale.  How 
the  quiet  voice  steadied  Helen!  She  beheld  Bo.  Bo, 
looking  the  same,  except  a  little  pale  and  disheveled! 
Then  Bo  saw  her  and  leaped  at  her,  into  her  arms. 

"Nell!    I'm  here!   Safe — all  right!    Never  was  so  happy 
in  my  life.  .  .  .  Oh-h !  talk  about  your  adventures !     Nell, 
you  dear  old  mother  to  me — I've  had   e-enough  for- 
ever!" 
23  345 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Bo  was  wild  with  joy,  and  by  turns  she  laughed  and 
cried.  But  Helen  could  not  voice  her  feelings.  Her  eyes 
were  so  dim  that  she  could  scarcely  see  Dale  when  he 
loomed  over  her  as  she  held  Bo.  But  he  found  the  hand 
she  put  shakily  out. 

"Nell!  .  .  .  Reckon  it's  been  harder — on  you."  His 
voice  was  earnest  and  halting.  She  telt  his  searching 
gaze  upon  her  face.  "  Mrs.  Cass  said  you  were  here.  An' 
I  know  why." 

Roy  led  them  all  indoors. 

"Milt,  one  of  the  neighbor  boys  will  take  care  of  thet 
hoss,"  he  said,  as  Dale  turned  toward  the  dusty  and 
weary  Ranger.  "Where'd  you  leave  the  cougar?" 

"I  sent  him  home,"  replied  Dale. 

"Laws  now,  Milt,  if  this  ain't  grand!"  cackled  Mrs. 
Cass.  "We've  worried  some  here.  An'  Miss  Helen  near 
starved  a-hopin*  fer  you." 

"Mother,  I  reckon  the  girl  an'  I  are  nearer  starved  than 
anybody  you  know,"  replied  Dale,  with  a  grim  laugh. 

"Fer  the  land's  sake!     I'll  be  fixin'  supper  this  minit." 

"Nell,  why  are  you  here?"  asked  Bo,  suspiciously. 

For  answer  Helen  led  her  sister  into  the  spare  room  and 
closed  the  door.  Bo  saw  the  baggage.  Her  expression 
changed.  The  old  blaze  leaped  to  the  telltale  eyes. 

"He's  done  it!"  she  cried,  hotly. 

"Dearest — thank  God.  I've  got  you — back  again!" 
murmured  Helen,  finding  her  voice.  "Nothing  else  mat- 
ters! ...  I've  prayed  only  for  that!" 

"Good  old  Nell!"  whispered  Bo,  and  she  kissed  and 
embraced  Helen.  "You  really  mean  that,  I  know.  But 
nix  for  yours  truly!  I'm  back  alive  and  kicking,  you  bet. 
.  .  .  Where's  my — where's  Tom?" 

"Bo,  not  a  word  has  been  heard  of  him  for  five  days. 
He's  searching  for  you,  of  course." 

"And  you've  been — been  put  off  the  ranch?" 

"Well,  rather,"  replied  Helen,  and  in  a  few  trembling 
words  she  told  the  story  of  her  eviction. 

346 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Bo  uttered  a  wild  word  that  had  more  force  than  ele- 
gance, but  it  became  her  passionate  resentment  ot  this 
outrage  done  her  sister. 

"Oh! .  .  .  Does  Tom  Carmichael  know  this?"  she  added, 
breathlessly. 

"How  could  he?" 

"When  he  finds  out,  then —  Oh,  won't  there  be  hell? 
I'm  glad  I  got  here  first.  .  .  .  Nell,  my  boots  haven't  been 
off  the  whole  blessed  time.  Help  me.  And  oh,  for  some 
soap  and  hot  water  and  some  clean  clothes!  Nell,  old 
girl,  I  wasn't  raised  right  for  these  Western  deals.  Too 
luxurious!" 

And  then  Helen  had  her  ears  filled  with  a  rapid-fire 
account  of  running  horses  and  Riggs  and  outlaws  and 
Beasley  called  boldly  to  his  teeth,  and  a  long  ride  and  an 
outlaw  who  was  a  hero — a  fight  with  Riggs — blood  and 
death — another  long  ride — a  wild  camp  in  black  woods — 
night — lonely,  ghostly  sounds — and  day  again — plot — a 
great  actress  lost  to  the  world — Ophelia — Snakes  and  An- 
sons — hoodooed  outlaws — mournful  moans  and  terrible 
cries — cougar — stampede — fight  and  shots,  more  blood 
and  death — Wilson  hero — another  Tom  Carmichael — fall- 
en in  love  with  outlaw  gun-fighter  if — black  night  and 
Dale  and  horse  and  rides  and  starved  and,  "Oh,  Nell,  he 
was  from  Texas!" 

Helen  gathered  that  wonderful  and  dreadful  events  had 
hung  over  the  bright  head  of  this  beloved  little  sister,  but 
the  bewilderment  occasioned  by  Bo's  fluent  and  remark- 
able utterance  left  only  that  last  sentence  clear. 

Presently  Helen  got  a  word  in  to  inform  Bo  that  Mrs. 
Cass  had  knocked  twice  for  supper,  and  that  welcome 
news  checked  Bo's  flow  of  speech  when  nothing  else  seemed 
adequate. 

It  was  obvious  to  Helen  that  Roy  and  Dale  had  ex- 
changed stories.  Roy  celebrated  this  reunion  by  sitting 
at  table  the  first  time  since  he  had  been  shot ;  and  despite 
Helen's  misfortune  and  the  suspended  waiting  balance  in 

347 


THE  MAN.  OF  THE  FOREST 

the  air  the  occasion  was  joyous.  Old  Mrs.  Cass  was  in 
the  height  of  her  glory.  She  sensed  a  romance  here,  and, 
true  to  her  sex,  she  radiated  to  it. 

Daylight  was  still  lingering  when  Roy  got  up  and  went 
out  on  the  porch.  His  keen  ears  had  heard  something. 
Helen  fancied  she  herself  had  heard  rapid  hoof-beats. 

"Dale,  come  out!"  called  Roy,  sharply. 

The  hunter  moved  with  his  swift,  noiseless  agility. 
Helen  and  Bo  followed,  halting  in  the  door. 

"Thet's  Las  Vegas,"  whispered  Dale. 

To  Helen  it  seemed  that  the  cowboy's  name  changed 
the  very  atmosphere. 

Voices  were  heard  at  the  gate;  one  that,  harsh  and  quick, 
sounded  like  Carmichaers.  And  a  spirited  horse  was 
pounding  and  scattering  gravel.  Then  a  lithe  figure  ap- 
peared, striding  up  the  path.  It  was  Carmichael — yet 
not  the  Carmichael  Helen  knew.  She  heard  Bo's  strange 
little  cry,  a  corroboration  of  her  own  impression. 

Roy  might  never  have  been  shot,  judging  from  the  way 
he  stepped  out,  and  Dale  was  almost  as  quick.  Car- 
michael reached  them — grasped  them  with  swift,  hard 
hands. 

"Boys — I  jest  rode  in.  An'  they  said  you'd  found 
her!" 

"Shore,  Las  Vegas.  Dale  fetched  her  home  safe  an' 
sound.  .  .  .  There  she  is." 

The  cowboy  thrust  aside  the  two  men,  and  with  a  long 
stride  he  faced  the  porch,  his  piercing  eyes  on  the  door. 
All  that  Helen  could  think  of  his  look  was  that  it  seemed 
terrible.  Bo  stepped  outside  in  front  of  Helen.  Prob- 
ably she  would  have  run  straight  into  Carmichael's  arms 
if  some  strange  instinct  had  not  withheld  her.  Helen 
judged  it  to  be  fear;  she  found  her  heart  lifting  painfully. 

"  Bo ! "  he  yelled,  like  a  savage,  yet  he  did  not  in  the  least 
resemble  one. 

"Oh— Tom!"  cried  Bo,  falteringly.  She  half  held  out 
her  arms. 

348 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"You,  girl?'*  That  seemed  to  be  his  piercing  query, 
like  the  quivering  blade  in  his  eyes.  Two  more  long 
strides  carried  him  close  up  to  her,  and  his  look  chased  the 
red  out  of  Bo's  cheek.  Then  it  was  beautiful  to  see  his 
face  marvelously  change  until  it  was  that  of  the  well- 
remembered  Las  Vegas  magnified  in  all  his  old  spirit. 

"Aw!"  The  exclamation  was  a  tremendous  sigh.  "I 
shore  am  glad!" 

That  beautiful  flash  left  his  face  as  he  wheeled  to  the 
men.  He  wrung  Dale's  hand  long  and  hard,  and  his  gaze 
confused  the  older  man. 

"Riggs!"  he  said,  and  in  the  jerk  of  his  frame  as  he 
whipped  out  the  word  disappeared  the  strange,  fleet- 
ing signs  of  his  kindlier  emotion. 

"Wilson  killed  him,"  replied  Dale. 

"Jim  Wilson — that  old  Texas  Ranger!  .  .  .  Reckon  he 
lent  you  a  hand?" 

"My  friend,  he  saved  Bo,"  replied  Dale,  with  emotion. 
"My  old  cougar  an'  me — we  just  hung  'round." 

"You  made  Wilson  help  you?"  cut  in  the  hard  voice. 

"Yes.  But  he  killed  Riggs  before  I  come  up  an'  I 
reckon  he'd  done  well  by  Bo  if  I'd  never  got  there." 

"How  about  the  gang?" 

"All  snuffed  out,  I  reckon,  except  Wilson." 

"Somebody  told  me  Beasley  hed  run  Miss  Helen  off  the 
ranch.  Thetso?" 

"Yes.  Four  of  his  greasers  packed  her  down  the  hill — 
'most  tore  her  clothes  off,  so  Roy  tells  me." 

"Four  greasers!  .  .  .  Shore  it  was  Beasley 's  deal  clean 
through?" 

"Yes.  Riggs  was  led.  He  had  an  itch  for  a  bad  name, 
you  know.  But  Beasley  made  the  plan.  It  was  Nell 
they  wanted  instead  of  Bo." 

Abruptly  Carmichael  stalked  off  down  the  darkening 
path,  his  silver  heel-plates  ringing,  his  spurs  jingling. 

"Hold  on.  Carmichael,"  called  Dale,  taking  a  step. 

"Oh,  Tom!  "cried  Bo. 

349 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Shore  folks  callin'  won't  be  no  use,  if  anythin'  would 
be,"  said  Roy.  "Las  Vegas  has  hed  a  look  at  red 
liquor." 

"He's  been  drinking!  Oh,  that  accounts!  .  .  .  Nell,  he 
never — never  even  touched  me!" 

For  once  Helen  was  not  ready  to  comfort  Bo.  A  mighty 
tug  at  her  heart  had  sent  her  with  flying,  uneven  steps 
toward  Dale.  He  took  another  stride  down  the  path,  and 
another. 

"Dale — oh — please  stop!"  she  called,  very  low. 

He  halted  as  if  he  had  run  sharply  into  a  bar  across  the 
path.  When  he  turned  Helen  had  come  close.  Twilight 
was  deep  there  in  the  shade  of  the  peach-trees,  but  she 
could  see  his  face,  the  hungry,  flaring  eyes. 

"I — I  haven't  thanked  you — yet — for  bringing  Bo 
home,"  she  whispered. 

"Nell,  never  mind  that,"  he  said,  in  surprise.  "If  you 
must — why,  wait.  I've  got  to  catch  up  with  that  cow- 
boy." 

"No.  Let  me  thank  you  now,"  she  whispered,  and, 
stepping  closer,  she  put  her  arms  up,  meaning  to  put  them 
round  his  neck.  That  action  must  be  her  self-punish- 
ment for  the  other  time  she  had  done  it.  Yet  it  might 
also  serve  to  thank  him.  But,  strangely,  her  hands  got 
no  farther  than  his  breast,  and  fluttered  there  to  catch 
hold  of  the  fringe  of  his  buckskin  jacket.  She  felt  a  heave 
of  his  deep  chest. 

"I — I  do  thank  you — with  all  my  heart,"  she  said, 
softly.  "  I  owe  you  now — for  myself  and  her — more  than 
I  can  ever  repay." 

"  Nell,  I'm  your  friend,"  he  replied,  hurriedly.  "  Don't 
talk  of  repayin'  me.  Let  me  go  now — after  Las  Vegas." 

"What  for?"  she  queried,  suddenly. 

"  I  mean  to  line  up  beside  him — at  the  bar — or  wherever 
he  goes,"  returned  Dale. 

"Don't  tell  me  that.  I  know.  You're  going  straight 
to  meet  Beasley." 

350 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"  Nell,  if  you  hold  me  up  any  longer  I  reckon  111  have 
to  run — or  never  get  to  Beasley  before  that  cowboy." 

Helen  locked  her  fingers  in  the  fringe  of  his  jacket — 
leaned  closer  to  him,  all  her  being  responsive  to  a  bursting 
gust  of  blood  over  her. 

"I'll  not  let  you  go,"  she  said. 

He  laughed,  and  put  his  great  hands  over  hers. 

"What  're  you  sayin',  girl?     You  can't  stop  me." 

"Yes,  I  can.  Dale,  I  don't  want  you  to  risk  your 
life." 

He  stared  at  her,  and  made  as  if  to  tear  her  hands  from 
their  hold. 

"  Listen — please — oh — please ! "  she  implored.  "  If  you 
go  deliberately  to  kill  Beasley — and  do  it — that  will  be 
murder.  .  .  .  It's  against  my  religion.  ...  I  would  be  un- 
happy all  my  life." 

"But,  child,  you'll  be  ruined  all  your  life  if  Beasley 
is  not  dealt  with  —  as  men  of  his  breed  are  always 
dealt  with  in  the  West,"  he  remonstrated,  and  in  one 
quick  move  he  had  freed  himself  from  her  clutching 
fingers. 

Helen,  with  a  move  as  swift,  put  her  arms  round  his 
neck  and  clasped  her  hands  tight. 

" Milt,  I'm  finding  myself,"  she  said.  "The  other  day, 
when  I  did — this — you  made  an  excuse  for  me.  .  .  .  I'm 
not  two-faced  now." 

She  meant  to  keep  him  from  killing  Beasley  if  she  sac- 
rificed every  last  shred  of  her  pride.  And  she  stamped 
the  look  of  his  face  on  her  heart  of  hearts  to  treasure 
always.  The  thrill,  the  beat  of  her  pulses,  almost  ob- 
structed her  thought  of  purpose. 

"Nell,  just  now — when  you're  overcome — rash  with 
feelin's — don't  say  to  me — a  word — a — " 

He  broke  down  huskily. 

"  My  first  friend — my —  Oh  Dale,  I  know  you  love  me!" 
she  whispered.  And  she  hid  her  face  on  his  breast,  there 
to  feel  a  tremendous  tumult. 

351 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Oh,  don't  you?"  she  cried,  in  low,  smothered  voice, 
as  his  silence  drove  her  farther  on  this  mad,  yet  glorious 
purpose, 

"  If  you  need  to  be  told — yes — I  reckon  I  do  love  you, 
Nell  Rayner,"  he  replied. 

It  seemed  to  Helen  that  he  spoke  from  far  off.  She 
lifted  her  face,  her  heart  on  her  lips. 

"If  you  kill  Beasley  I'll  never  marry  you,"  she  said. 

"Who's  expectin'  you  to?"  he  asked,  with  low,  hoarse 
laugh.  "Do  you  think  you  have  to  marry  me  to  square 
accounts?  This  's  the  only  time  you  ever  hurt  me,  Nell 
Rayner.  ...  I'm  'shamed  you  could  think  I'd  expect  you 
— out  of  gratitude — " 

"Oh — you — you  are  as  dense  as  the  forest  where  you 
live,"  she  cried.  And  then  she  shut  her  eyes  again,  the 
better  to  remember  that  transfiguration  of  his  face,  the 
better  to  betray  herself. 

"Man — I  love  you!"  Full  and  deep,  yet  tremulous, 
the  words  burst  from  her  heart  that  had  been  burdened 
with  them  for  many  a  day. 

Then  it  seemed,  in  the  throbbing  riot  of  her  senses,  that 
she  was  lifted  and  swung  into  his  arms,  and  handled  with 
a  great  and  terrible  tenderness,  and  hugged  and  kissed 
with  the  hunger  and  awkwardness  of  a  bear,  arid  held 
with  her  feet  off  the  ground,  and  rendered  blind,  dizzy, 
rapturous,  and  frightened,  and  utterly  torn  asunder  from 
her  old  calm,  thinking  self. 

He  put  her  down — released  her. 

"Nothin'  could  have  made  me  so  happy  as  what  you 
said."  He  finished  with  a  strong  sigh  of  unutterable, 
wondering  joy. 

"Then  you  will  not  go  to — to  meet — " 

Helen's  happy  query  froze  on  her  lips. 

"I've  got  to  go!"  he  rejoined,  with  his  old,  quiet  voice. 
"Hurry  in  to  Bo.  .  .  .  An'  don't  worry.  Try  to  think  of 
things  as  I  taught  you  up  in  the  woods." 

Helen  heard  his  soft,  padded  footfalls  swiftly  pass  away. 

352 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

She  was  left  there,  alone  in  the  darkening  twilight,  sud 
denly  cold  and  stricken,  as  if  turned  to  stone. 

Thus  she  stood  an  age-long  moment  until  the  up- 
flashing  truth  galvanized  her  into  action.  Then  she  flew 
in  pursuit  of  Dale.  The  truth  was  that,  in  spite  of  Dale's 
early  training  in  the  East  and  the  long  years  of  solitude 
which  had  made  him  wonderful  in  thought  and  feeling, 
he  had  also  become  a  part  of  this  raw,  bold,  and  violent 
West. 

It  was  quite  dark  now  and  she  had  run  quite  some  dis- 
tance before  she  saw  Dale's  tall,  dark  form  against  the 
yellow  light  of  Turner's  saloon. 

Somehow,  in  that  poignant  moment,  when  her  flying 
feet  kept  pace  with  her  heart,  Helen  felt  in  herself  a  force 
opposing  itself  against  this  raw,  primitive  justice  of  the 
West.  She  was  one  of  the  first  influences  emanating  from 
civilized  life,  from  law  and  order.  In  that  flash  of  truth 
she  saw  the  West  as  it  would  be  some  future  time,  when 
through  women  and  children  these  wild  frontier  days 
would  be  gone  forever.  Also,  just  as  clearly  she  saw  the 
present  need  of  men  like  Roy  Beeman  and  Dale  and  the 
fire-blooded  Carmichael.  Beasley  and  his  kind  must  be 
killed.  But  Helen  did  not  want  her  lover,  her  future 
husband,  and  the  probable  father  of  her  children  to  com- 
mit what  she  held  to  be  murder. 

At  the  door  of  the  saloon  she  caught  up  with  Dale. 

"  Milt — oh — wait ! — wait ! "  she  panted. 

She  heard  him  curse  under  his  breath  as  ne  turned. 
They  were  alone  in  the  yellow  flare  of  light.  Horses  were 
champing  bits  and  drooping  before  the  rails. 

"You  go  back!"  ordered  Dale,  sternly.  His  face  was 
pale,  his  eyes  were  gleaming. 

"No!  Not  till — you  take  me — or  carry  me!"  she  re- 
plied, resolutely,  with  all  a  woman's  positive  and  inevitable 
assurance. 

Then  he  laid  hold  of  her  with  ungentle  hands.  His 
violence,  especially  the  look  on  his  face,  terrified  Helen, 

SS3 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

rendered  her  weak.  But  nothing  could  have  shaken  her 
resolve.  She  felt  victory.  Her  sex,  her  love,  and  her 
presence  would  be  too  much  for  Dale. 

As  he  swung  Helen  around,  the  low  hum  of  voices  inside 
the  saloon  suddenly  rose  to  sharp,  hoarse  roars,  accom- 
panied by  a  scuffling  of  feet  and  crashing  of  violently 
sliding  chairs  or  tables.  Dale  let  go  of  Helen  and  leaped 
toward  the  door.  But  a  silence  inside,  quicker  and 
stranger  than  the  roar,  halted  him.  Helen's  heart  con- 
tracted, then  seemed  to  cease  beating.  There  was  ab- 
solutely not  a  perceptible  sound.  Even  the  horses  ap- 
peared, like  Dale,  to  have  turned  to  statues. 

Two  thundering  shots  annihilated  this  silence.  Then 
quickly  came  a  lighter  shot — the  smash  of  glass.  Dale 
ran  into  the  saloon.  The  horses  began  to  snort,  to  rear, 
to  pound.  A  low,  muffled  murmur  terrified  Helen  even 
as  it  drew  her.  Dashing  at  the  door,  she  swung  it  in  and 
entered. 

The  place  was  dim,  blue-hazed,  smelling  of  smoke. 
Dale  stood  just  inside  the  door.  On  the  floor  lay  two 
men.  Chairs  and  tables  were  overturned.  A  motley, 
dark,  shirt-sleeved,  booted,  and  belted  crowd  of  men  ap- 
peared hunched  against  the  opposite  wall,  with  pale,  set 
faces,  turned  to  the  bar.  Turner,  the  proprietor,  stood 
at  one  end,  his  face  livid,  his  hands  aloft  and  shaking. 
Carmichael  leaned  against  the  middle  of  the  bar.  He 
held  a  gun  low  down.  It  was  smoking. 

With  a  gasp  Helen  flashed  her  eyes  back  to  Dale.  He 
had  seen  her — was  reaching  an  arm  toward  her.  Then 
she  saw  the  man  lying  almost  at  her  feet.  Jeff  Mulvey 
— her  uncle's  old  foreman !  His  face  was  awful  to  behold. 
A  smoking  gun  lay  near  his  inert  hand.  The  other  man 
had  fallen  on  his  face.  His  garb  proclaimed  him  a  Mexi- 
can. He  was  not  yet  dead.  Then  Helen,  as  she  felt 
Dale's  arm  encircle  her,  looked  farther,  because  she 
could  not  prevent  it — looked  on  at  that  strange  figure 
against  the  bar — this  boy  who  had  been  such  a  friend 

354 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

in  her  hour  of  need — this  naive  and  frank  sweetheart 
of  her  sister's. 

She  saw  a  man  now — wild,  white,  intense  as  fire,  with 
some  terrible  cool  kind  of  deadliness  in  his  mien.  His 
left  elbow  rested  upon  the  bar,  and  his  hand  held  a  glass 
of  red  liquor.  The  big  gun,  low  down  in  his  other  hand, 
seemed  as  steady  as  if  it  were  a  fixture. 

"Heah's  to  thet— half-breed  Beasley  an'  his  outfit!" 

Carmichael  drank,  while  his  flaming  eyes  held  the  crowd ; 
then  with  savage  action  of  terrible  passion  he  flung  the 
glass  at  the  quivering  form  of  the  still  living  Mexican  on 
the  floor. 

Helen  felt  herself  slipping.  All  seemed  to  darken 
around  her.  She  could  not  see  Dale,  though  she  knew  he 
held  her.  Then  she  fainted. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

E.S  VEGAS  CARMICHAEL  was  a  product  of  his 
day. 

The  Pan  Handle  of  Texas,  the  old  Chisholm  Trail  along 
which  were  driven  the  great  cattle  herds  northward,  Fort 
Dodge,  where  the  cowboys  conflicted  with  the  card- 
sharps — these  hard  places  had  left  their  marks  on  Car- 
michael.  To  come  from  Texas  was  to  come  from  fighting 
stock.  And  a  cowboy's  life  was  strenuous,  wild,  violent, 
and  generally  brief.  The  exceptions  were  the  fortunate 
and  the  swiftest  men  with  guns;  and  they  drifted  from 
south  to  north  and  west,  taking  with  them  the  reckless, 
chivalrous,  vitriolic  spirit  peculiar  to  their  breed. 

The  pioneers  and  ranchers  of  the  frontier  would  never 
have  made  the  West  habitable  had  it  not  been  for  these 
wild  cowboys,  these  hard-drinking,  hard-riding,  hard-liv- 
ing rangers  of  the  barrens,  these  easy,  cool,  laconic,  simple 
young  men  whose  blood  was  tinged  with  fire  and  who 
possessed  a  magnificent  and  terrible  effrontery  toward 
danger  and  death. 

Las  Vegas  ran  his  horse  from  Widow  Cass's  cottage  to 
Turner's  saloon,  and  the  hoofs  of  the  goaded  steed 
crashed  in  the  door.  Las  Vegas 's  entrance  was  a  leap. 
Then  he  stood  still  with  the  door  ajar  and  the  horse 
pounding  and  snorting  back.  All  the  men  in  that  saloon 
who  saw  the  entrance  of  Las  Vegas  knew  what  it  por- 
tended. No  thunderbolt  could  have  more  quickly 
checked  the  drinking,  gambling,  talking  crowd.  They 
recognized  with  kindred  senses  the  nature  of  the  man  and 
his  arrival.  For  a  second  the  blue-hazed  room  was  per- 

356 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

fectly  quiet,  then  men  breathed,  moved,  rose,  and  sud- 
denly caused  a  quick,  sliding  crash  of  chairs  and  tables. 

The  cowboy's  glittering  eyes  flashed  to  and  fro,  and 
then  fixed  on  Mulvey  and  his  Mexican  companion.  That 
glance  singled  out  these  two,  and  the  sudden  rush  of 
nervous  men  proved  it.  Mulvey  and  the  sheep-herder 
were  left  alone  in  the  center  of  the  floor. 

"Howdy,  Jeff!  Where's  your  boss?"  asked  Las  Vegas. 
His  voice  was  cool,  friendly;  his  manner  was  easy,  natu- 
ral; but  the  look  of  him  was  what  made  Mulvey  pale 
and  the  Mexican  livid. 

"Reckon  he's  home,"  replied  Mulvey. 

"  Home  ?     What's  he  call  home  now  ? " 

"He's  hangin'  out  hyar  at  Auchincloss's,"  replied  Mul- 
vey. His  voice  was  not  strong,  but  his  eyes  were  steady, 
watchful. 

Las  Vegas  quivered  all  over  as  if  stung.  A  flame  that 
seemed  white  and  red  gave  his  face  a  singular  hue. 

"Jeff,  you  worked  for  old  Al  a  long  time,  an'  I've  heard 
of  your  differences,"  said  Las  Vegas.  "Thet  ain't  no  mix 
of  mine.  .  .  .  But  you  double-crossed  Miss  Helen!" 

Mulvey  made  no  attempt  to  deny  this.  He  gulped 
slowly.  His  hands  appeared  less  steady,  and  he  grew 
paler.  Again  Las  Vegas's  words  signified  less  than  his 
look.  And  that  look  now  included  the  Mexican. 

"Pedro,  you're  one  of  Beasley's  old  hands,"  said  Las 
Vegas,  accusingly.  "An' — you  was  one  of  them  four 
greasers  thet — " 

Here  the  cowboy  choked  and  bit  over  his  words  as  if 
they  were  a  material  poison.  The  Mexican  showed  his 
guilt  and  cowardice.  He  began  to  jabber. 

"Shet  up!"  hissed  Las  Vegas,  with  a  savage  and  sig- 
nificant jerk  of  his  arm,  as  if  about  to  strike.  But  that 
action  was  read  for  its  true  meaning.  Pell-mell  the  crowd 
split  to  rush  each  way  and  leave  an  open  space  behind  the 
three. 

Las  Vegas  waited.  But  Mulvey  seemed  obstructed, 

357 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

The  Mexican  looked  dangerous  through  his  fear.  His 
fingers  twitched  as  if  the  tendons  running  up  into  his 
arms  were  being  pulled. 

An  instant  of  suspense — more  than  long  enough  for 
Mulvey  to  be  tried  and  found  wanting — and  Las  Vegas, 
with  laugh  and  sneer,  turned  his  back  upon  the  pair  and 
stepped  to  the  bar.  His  call  for  a  bottle  made  Turner 
jump  and  hold  it  out  with  shaking  hands.  Las  Vegas 
poured  out  a  drink,  while  his  gaze  was  intent  on  the 
scarred  old  mirror  hanging  behind  the  bar. 

This  turning  his  back  upon  men  he  had  just  dared  to 
draw  showed  what  kind  of  a  school  Las  Vegas  had  been 
trained  in.  If  those  men  had  been  worthy  antagonists 
of  his  class  he  would  never  have  scorned  them.  As  it 
was,  when  Mulvey  and  the  Mexican  jerked  at  their  guns, 
Las  Vegas  swiftly  wheeled  and  shot  twice.  Mulvey's 
gun  went  off  as  he  fell,  and  the  Mexican  doubled  up  in  a 
heap  on  the  floor.  Then  Las  Vegas  reached  around  with 
his  left  hand  for  the  drink  he  had  poured  out. 

At  this  juncture  Dale  burst  into  the  saloon,  suddenly 
to  check  his  impetus,  to  swerve  aside  toward  the  bar  and 
halt.  The  door  had  not  ceased  swinging  when  again  it 
was  propelled  inward,  this  time  to  admit  Helen  Rayner, 
white  and  wide-eyed. 

In  another  moment  then  Las  Vegas  had  spoken  his 
deadly  toast  to  Beasley's  gang  and  had  fiercely  flung  the 
glass  at  the  writhing  Mexican  on  the  floor.  Also  Dale 
had  gravitated  toward  the  reeling  Helen  to  catch  her 
when  she  fainted. 

Las  Vegas  began  to  curse,  and,  striding  to  Dale,  he 
pushed  him  out  of  the  saloon. 

" !  What  're  you  doin'  heah  ? "  he  yelled,  stridently. 

"Hevn't  you  got  thet  girl  to  think  of?  Then  do  it,  you 
big  Indian!  Lettin'  her  run  after  you  heah — riskin'  her- 
self thet  way!  You  take  care  of  her  an'  Bo  an'  leave  this 
deal  tome!" 

The  cowboy,  furious  as  he  was  at  Dale,  yet  had  keen, 

358 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

swift  eyes  for  the  horses  near  at  hand,  and  the  men  out 
in  the  dim  light.  Dale  lifted  the  girl  into  his  arms,  and, 
turning  without  a  word,  stalked  away  to  disappear  in  the 
darkness.  Las  Vegas,  holding  his  gun  low,  returned  to 
the  bar-room.  If  there  had  been  any  change  in  the  crowd 
it  was  slight.  The  tension  had  relaxed.  Turner  no 
longer  stood  with  hands  up. 

"  You-all  go  on  with  your  fun,"  called  the  cowboy,  with 
a  sweep  of  his  gun.  "But  it  'd  be  risky  fer  any  one  to 
start  leavin'." 

With  that  he  backed  against  the  bar,  near  where  the 
black  bottle  stood.  Turner  walked  out  to  begin  righting 
tables  and  chairs,  and  presently  the  crowd,  with  some  cau- 
tion and  suspense,  resumed  their  games  and  drinking.  It 
was  significant  that  a  wide  berth  lay  between  them  and 
the  door.  From  time  to  time  Turner  served  liquor  to 
men  who  called  for  it. 

Las  Vegas  leaned  with  back  against  the  bar.  After  a 
while  he  sheathed  his  gun  and  reached  around  for  the 
bottle.  He  drank  with  his  piercing  eyes  upon  the  door. 
No  one  entered  and  no  one  went  out.  The  games  of 
chance  there  and  the  drinking  were  not  enjoyed.  It  was 
a  hard  scene — that  smoky,  long,  ill-smelling  room,  with 
its  dim,  yellow  lights,  and  dark,  evil  faces,  with  the 
stealthy-stepping  Turner  passing  to  and  fro,  and  the 
dead  Mulvey  staring  in  horrible  fixidity  at  the  ceiling, 
and  the  Mexican  quivering  more  and  more  until  he  shook 
violently,  then  lay  still,  and  with  the  drinking,  somber, 
waiting  cowboy,  more  fiery  and  more  flaming  with  every 
drink,  listening  for  a  step  that  did  not  come. 

Time  passed,  and  what  little  change  it  wrought  was 
in  the  cowboy.  Drink  affected  him,  but  he  did  not 
become  drunk.  It  seemed  that  the  liquor  he  drank 
was  consumed  by  a  mounting  fire.  It  was  fuel  to  a 
driving  passion.  He  grew  more  sullen,  somber,  brood- 
ing, redder  of  eye  and  face,  more  crouching  and  rest- 
less. At  last,  when  the  hour  was  so  late  that  there 

359 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

was  no  probability  of  Beasley  appearing,  Las  Vegas 
flung  himself  out  of  the  saloon. 

All  lights  of  the  village  had  now  been  extinguished. 
The  tired  horses  drooped  in  the  darkness.  Las  Vegas 
found  his  horse  and  led  him  away  down  the  road  and  out 
a  lane  to  a  field  where  a  barn  stood  dim  and  dark  in  the 
starlight.  Morning  was  not  far  off.  He  unsaddled  the 
horse  and,  turning  him  loose,  went  into  the  barn.  Here 
he  seemed  familiar  with  his  surroundings,  for  he  found  a 
ladder  and  climbed  to  a  loft,  where  he  threw  himself  on 
the  hay. 

He  rested,  but  did  not  sleep.  At  daylight  he  went 
down  and  brought  his  horse  into  the  barn.  Sunrise  found 
Las  Vegas  pacing  to  and  fro  the  short  length  of  the  in- 
terior, and  peering  out  through  wide  cracks  between  the 
boards.  Then  during  the  succeeding  couple  of  hours  he 
watched  the  occasional  horseman  and  wagon  and  herder 
that  passed  on  into  the  village. 

About  the  breakfast  hour  Las  Vegas  saddled  his  horse 
and  rode  back  the  way  he  had  come  the  night  before.  At 
Turner's  he  called  for  something  to  eat  as  well  as  for 
whisky.  After  that  he  became  a  listening,  watching 
machine.  He  drank  freely  for  an  hour;  then  he  stopped. 
He  seemed  to  be  drunk,  but  with  a  different  kind  of 
drunkenness  from  that  usual  in  drinking  men.  Savage, 
fierce,  sullen,  he  was  one  to  avoid.  Turner  waited  on  him 
in  evident  fear. 

At  length  Las  Vegas's  condition  became  such  that 
action  was  involuntary.  He  could  not  stand  still  nor  sit 
down.  Stalking  out,  he  passed  the  store,  where  men 
slouched  back  to  avoid  him,  and  he  went  down  the  road, 
wary  and  alert,  as  if  he  expected  a  rifle-shot  from  some 
hidden  enemy.  Upon  his  return  down  that  main  thor- 
oughfare of  the  village  not  a  person  was  to  be  seen.  He 
went  in  to  Turner's.  The  proprietor  was  there  at  his 
post,  nervous  and  pale.  Las  Vegas  did  not  order  any 

more  liouor. 

360 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"Turner,  I  reckon  I'll  bore  you  next  time  I  run  in 
heah,"  he  said,  and  stalked  out. 

He  had  the  stores,  the  road,  the  village,  to  himself; 
and  he  patrolled  a  beat  like  a  sentry  watching  for  an 
Indian  attack. 

Toward  noon  a  single  man  ventured  out  into  the  road 
to  accost  the  cowboy. 

"Las  Vegas,  I'm  tellin'  you — all  the  greasers  air  leavin* 
the  range,"  he  said. 

"Howdy,  Abe!"  replied  Las  Vegas.  "What  'n  hell  you 
talkin'  about?" 

The  man  repeated  his  information.  And  Las  Vegas 
spat  out  frightful  curses. 

"Abe — you  heah  what  Beasley's  doin'?" 

"Yes.  He's  with  his  men — up  at  the  ranch.  Reckon 
he  can't  put  off  ridin'  down  much  longer." 

That  was  where  the  West  spoke.  Beasley  would  be 
forced  to  meet  the  enemy  who  had  come  out  single-handed 
against  him.  Long  before  this  hour  a  braver  man  would 
have  come  to  face  Las  Vegas.  Beasley  could  not  hire 
any  gang  to  bear  the  brunt  of  this  situation.  This  was 
the  test  by  which  even  his  own  men  must  judge  him. 
All  of  which  was  to  say  that  as  the  wildness  of  the  West 
had  made  possible  his  crimes,  so  it  now  held  him  respon- 
sible for  them. 

"Abe,  if  thet greaser  don't  rustle  down  heah  I'ti 

goin'  after  him." 

"Sure.     But  don't  be  in  no  hurry,"  replied  Abe. 

"I'm  waltzin'  to  slow  music.  .  .  .  Gimme  a  smoke." 

With  ringers  that  slightly  trembled  Abe  rolled  a  ciga- 
rette, lit  it  iTom  his  own,  and  handed  it  to  the  cowboy. 

"Las  Vegas,  I  reckon  I  hear  hosses,"  he  said,  suddenly. 

"Me,  too,"  replied  Las  Vegas,  with  his  head  high  like 
that  of  a  listening  deer.  Apparently  he  forgot  the  ciga- 
rette and  also  his  friend.  Abe  hurried  back  to  the  store, 
where  he  disappeared. 

Las  Vegas  began  his  stalking  up  and  down,  and  his 
24  361 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

action  now  was  an  exaggeration  of  all  his  former  move- 
ments. A  rational,  ordinary  mortal  from  some  Eastern 
community,  happening  to  meet  this  red-faced  cowboy, 
would  have  considered  him  drunk  or  crazy.  Probably 
Las  Vegas  looked  both.  But  all  the  same  he  was  a  mar- 
velously  keen  and  strung  and  efficient  instrument  to  meet 
the  portending  issue.  How  many  thousands  of  times, 
on  the  trails,  and  in  the  wide-streeted  little  towns  all  over 
the  West,  had  this  stalk  of  the  cowboy's  been  perpetrated! 
Violent,  bloody,  tragic  as  it  was,  it  had  an  importance  in 
that  pioneer  day  equal  to  the  use  of  a  horse  or  the  need 
of  a  plow. 

At  length  Pine  was  apparently  a  deserted  village,  ex- 
cept for  Las  Vegas,  who  patrolled  his  long  beat  in  many 
ways — he  lounged  while  he  watched;  he  stalked  like  a 
mountaineer;  he  stole  along  Indian  fashion,  stealthily, 
from  tree  to  tree,  from  corner  to  corner;  he  disappeared 
in  the  saloon  to  reappear  at  the  back;  he  slipped  round 
behind  the  barns  to  come  out  again  in  the  main  road; 
and  time  after  time  he  approached  his  horse  as  if  decid- 
ing to  mount. 

The  last  visit  he  made  into  Turner's  saloon  he  found 
no  one  there.  Savagely  he  pounded  on  the  bar  with  his 
gun.  He  got  no  response.  Then  the  long-pent-up  rage 
burst.  With  wild  whoops  he  pulled  another  gun  and  shot 
at  the  mirror,  the  lamps.  He  shot  the  neck  off  a  bottle 
and  drank  till  he  choked,  his  neck  corded,  bulging,  and 
purple.  His  only  slow  and  deliberate  action  was  the  re- 
loading of  his  gun.  Then  he  crashed  through  the  doors, 
and  with  a  wild  yell  leaped  sheer  into  the  saddle,  hauling 
his  horse  up  high  and  goading  him  to  plunge  away. 

Men  running  to  the  door  and  windows  of  the  store  saw 
a  streak  of  dust  flying  down  the  road.  And  then  they 
trooped  out  to  see  it  disappear.  The  hour  of  suspense 
ended  for  them.  Las  Vegas  had  lived  up  to  the  code  of 
the  West,  had  dared  his  man  out,  had  waited  far  longer 
Chan  needful  to  prove  that  man  a  coward.  Whatever  the 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

issue  now,  Beasley  was  branded  forever.  That  moment 
saw  the  decline  of  whatever  power  he  had  wielded.  He 
and  his  men  might  kill  the  cowboy  who  had  ridden  out 
alone  to  face  him,  but  that  would  not  change  the  brand. 

The  preceding  night  Beasley  had  been  finishing  a  late 
supper  at  his  newly  acquired  ranch,  when  Buck  Weaver, 
one  of  his  men,  burst  in  upon  him  with  news  of  the  death 
of  Mulvey  and  Pedro. 

"Who's  in  the  outfit?  How  many?"  he  had  ques- 
tioned, quickly. 

"It's  a  one-man  outfit,  boss,"  replied  Weaver. 

Beasley  appeared  astounded.  He  and  his  men  had 
prepared  to  meet  the  friends  of  the  girl  whose  property  he 
had  taken  over,  and  because  of  the  superiority  of  his  own 
force  he  had  anticipated  no  bloody  or  extended  feud. 
This  amazing  circumstance  put  the  case  in  very  much 
more  difficult  form. 

"One  man!"  he  ejaculated. 

"Yep.  Thet  cowboy  Las  Vegas.  An,'  boss,  he  turns 
out  to  be  a  gun-slinger  from  Texas.  I  was  in  Turner's. 
Hed  jest  happened  to  step  in  the  other  room  when  Las 
Vegas  come  bustin'  in  on  his  hoss  an'  jumped  off.  .  .  . 
Fust  thing  he  called  Jeff  an'  Pedro.  They  both  showed 
yaller.  An'  then,  damn  if  thet  cowboy  didn't  turn  his 
back  on  them  an'  went  to  the  bar  fer  a  drink.  But  he 
was  lookin'  in  the  mirror  an'  when  Jeff  an'  Pedro  went  fer 
their  guns  why  he  whirled  quick  as  lightnin'  an'  bored 
them  both.  ...  I  sneaked  out  an' — " 

"Why  didn't  you  bore  him?"  roared  Beasley. 

Buck  Weaver  steadily  eyed  his  boss  before  he  replied. 

"I  ain't  takin'  shots  at  any  fellar  from  behind  doors. 
An'  as  fer  meetin'  Las  Vegas — excoose  me,  boss!  I've 
still  a  hankerin'  fer  sunshine  an'  red  liquor.  Besides,  I 
'ain't  got  nothin'  ag'in'  Las  Vegas.  If  he's  rustled  over 
here  at  the  head  of  a  crowd  to  put  us  off  I'd  fight,  jest  as 
we'd  all  fight.  But  you  see  we  figge^ed  wrong.  It's 

363 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

between  you  an*  Las  Vegas!  .  .  .  You  oughter  seen  him 
throw  thet  hunter  Dale  out  of  Turner's." 

"Dale!     Did  he  come?"  queried  Beasley. 

"He  got  there  just  after  the  cowboy  plugged  Jeff.  An* 
thet  big-eyed  girl,  she  came  runnin'  in,  too.  An*  she 
keeled  over  in  Dale's  arms.  Las  Vegas  shoved  him  out 
— cussed  him  so  hard  we  all  heerd.  .  .  .  So,  Beasley,  there 
ain't  no  fight  comin'  off  as  we  figgered  on." 

Beasley  thus  heard  the  West  speak  out  of  the  mouth  of 
his  own  man.  And  grim,  sardonic,  almost  scornful,  in- 
deed, were  the  words  of  Buck  Weaver.  This  rider  had 
once  worked  for  Al  Auchincloss  and  had  deserted  to 
Beasley  under  Mulvey's  leadership.  Mulvey  was  dead 
and  the  situation  was  vastly  changed. 

Beasley  gave  Weaver  a  dark,  lowering  glance,  and 
waved  him  away.  From  the  door  Weaver  sent  back  a 
doubtful,  scrutinizing  gaze,  then  slouched  out.  That 
gaze  Beasley  had  not  encountered  before. 

It  meant,  as  Weaver's  cronies  meant,  as  Beasley's  long- 
faithful  riders,  and  the  people  of  the  range,  and  as  the  spirit 
of  the  West  meant,  that  Beasley  was  expected  to  march 
down  into  the  village  to  face  his  single  foe. 

But  Beasley  did  not  go.  Instead  he  paced  to  and  fro 
the  length  of  Helen  Rayner's  long  sitting-room  with  the 
nervous  energy  of  a  man  who  could  not  rest.  Many 
times  he  hesitated,  and  at  others  he  made  sudden  move- 
ments toward  the  door,  only  to  halt.  Long  after  midnight 
he  went  to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep.  He  tossed  and  rolled 
all  night,  and  at  dawn  arose,  gloomy  and  irritable. 

He  cursed  the  Mexican  serving-women  who  showed 
their  displeasure  at  his  authority.  And  to  his  amaze  and 
rage  not  one  of  his  men  came  to  the  house.  He  waited 
and  waited.  Then  he  stalked  off  to  the  corrals  and  stables, 
carrying  a  rifle  with  him.  The  men  were  there,  in  a  group 
that  dispersed  somewhat  at  his  advent.  Not  a  Mexican 
was  in  sight. 

Beasley  ordered  the  horses  to  be  saddled  and  all  hands 

364 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

to  go  down  into  the  village  with  him.  That  order  was 
disobeyed.  Beasley  stormed  and  raged.  His  riders  sat 
or  lounged,  with  lowered  faces.  An  unspoken  hostility 
seemed  present.  Those  who  had  been  longest  with  him 
were  least  distant  and  strange,  but  still  they  did  not  obey. 
At  length  Beasley  roared  for  his  Mexicans. 

"  Boss,  we  gotta  tell  you  thet  every  greaser  on  the  ranch 
hes  sloped — gone  these  two  hours — on  the  way  to  Mag- 
dalena,"  said  Buck  Weaver. 

Of  all  these  sudden-uprising  perplexities  this  latest  was 
the  most  astounding.  Beasley  cursed  with  his  question- 
ing wonder. 

"Boss,  they  was  sure  scared  of  thet  gun-slingin'  cowboy 
from  Texas,"  replied  Weaver,  imperturbably. 

Beasley's  dark,  swarthy  face  changed  its  hue.  What 
of  the  subtle  reflection  in  Weaver's  slow  speech!  One  of 
the  men  came  out  of  a  corral  leading  Beasley's  saddled 
and  bridled  horse.  This  fellow  dropped  the  bridle  and 
sat  down  among  his  comrades  without  a  word.  No  one 
spoke.  The  presence  of  the  horse  was  significant.  With 
a  snarling,  muttered  curse,  Beasley  took  up  his  rifle  and 
strode  back  to  the  ranch-house. 

In  his  rage  and  passion  he  did  not  realize  what  his  men 
had  known  for  hours — that  if  he  had  stood  any  chance 
at  all  for  their  respect  as  well  as  for  his  life  the  hour  was 
long  past. 

Beasley  avoided  the  open  paths  to  the  house,  and  when 
he  got  there  he  nervously  poured  out  a  drink.  Evidently 
something  in  the  fiery  liquor  frightened  him,  for  he  threw 
the  bottle  aside.  It  was  as  if  that  bottle  contained  a 
courage  which  was  false. 

Again  he  paced  the  long  sitting-room,  growing  more 
and  more  wrought-up  as  evidently  he  grew  familiar  with 
the  singular  state  of  affairs.  Twice  the  pale  serving- 
woman  called  him  to  dinner. 

The  dining-room  was  light  and  pleasant,  and  tne  meal, 
fragrant  and  steaming,  was  ready  for  him.  But  the 

365 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

women  had  disappeared.  Beasley  seated  himself — spread 
out  his  big  hands  on  the  table. 

Then  a  slight  rustle — a  clink  of  spur — startled  him. 
He  twisted  his  head. 

"Howdy,  Beasley!"  said  Las  Vegas,  who  had  appeared 
as  if  by  magic. 

Beasley's  frame  seemed  to  swell  as  if  a  flood  had  been 
loosed  in  his  veins.  Sweat-drops  stood  out  on  his  pallid 
face. 

"What — you — want?"  he  asked,  huskily. 

"Wai  now,  my  boss,  Miss  Helen,  says,  seein'  I  am  fore- 
man heah,  thet  it  'd  be  nice  an'  proper  fer  me  to  drop  in 
an*  eat  with  you — ike  last  time!"  replied  the  cowboy.  His 
drawl  was  slow  and  cool,  his  tone  was  friendly  and  pleas- 
ant. But  his  look  was  that  of  a  falcon  ready  to  drive 
deep  its  beak. 

Beasley's  reply  was  loud,  incoherent,  hoarse. 

Las  Vegas  seated  himself  across  from  Beasley. 

"Eat  or  not,  it's  shore  all  the  same  to  me,"  said  Las 
Vegas,  and  he  began  to  load  his  plate  with  his  left  hand. 
His  right  hand  rested  very  lightly,  with  just  the  tips  of 
his  vibrating  fingers  on  the  edge  of  the  table;  and  he 
never  for  the  slightest  fraction  of  a  second  took  his  pierc- 
ing eyes  off  Beasley. 

"Wai,  my  half-breed  greaser  guest,  it  shore  roils  up  my 
blood  to  see  you  sittin'  there — thinkin'  you've  put  my 
boss,  Miss  Helen,  off  this  ranch,"  began  Las  Vegas,  softly. 
And  then  he  helped  himself  leisurely  to  food  and  drink. 
"  In  my  day  I've  shore  stacked  up  against  a  lot  of  outlaws, 
thieves,  rustlers,  an'  sich  like,  but  fer  an  out  an'  out  dirty 
low-down  skunk,  you  shore  take  the  dough !  ...  I'm  goin* 
to  kill  you  in  a  minit  or  so,  jest  as  soon  as  you  move  one 
of  them  dirty  paws  of  yourn.  But  I  hope  you'll  be  polite 
an'  let  me  say  a  few  words.  I'll  never  be  happy  again  if 

you  don't. ...  Of  all  the  • -Vailer  greaser  dogs  I  ever  seen, 

you're  the  worst!  ...  I  was  thinkin'  last  night  mebbe 
vou'd  come  down  an*  meet  me  like  a  man,  so  's  I  couH 

366 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

wasij  my  hands  ever  afterward  without  gettin'  sick  to  m> 
stummick.  But  you  didn't  come.  .  .  .  Beasley,  I'm  so 
ashamed  of  myself  thet  I  gotta  call  you — when  I  ought 
to  bore  you,  thet — I  ain't  even  second  cousin  to  my  old 
self  when  I  rode  fer  Chisholm.  It  don't  mean  nuthin'  to 
you  to  call  you  liar!  robber!  blackleg!  a  sneakin'  coyote! 
an'  a  cheat  thet  hires  others  to  do  his  dirty  work ! .  .  .  By 
Gawd!—" 

"Carmichael,  gimme  a  word  in,"  hoarsely  broke  out 
Beasley.  "  You're  right,  it  won't  do  no  good  to  call  me. 
...  But  let's  talk.  .  .  .  I'll  buy  you  off.  Ten  thousand 
dollars—" 

"Haw!  Haw!  Haw!"  roared  Las  Vegas.  He  was  as 
tense  as  a  strung  cord  and  his  face  possessed  a  singular 
pale  radiance.  His  right  hand  began  to  quiver  more  and 
more. 

"  I'll— double— it ! "  panted  Beasley.  "  I'll— make  over 
— half  the  ranch — all  the  stock — " 

"Swaller  thet!"  yelled  Las  Vegas,  with  terrible  strident 
ferocity. 

"Listen — man!  ...  I  take — it  back!  ...  I'll  give  up — 
Auchincloss's  ranch!"  Beasley  was  now  a  shaking,  whis- 
pering, frenzied  man,  ghastly  white,  with  rolling  eyes. 

Las  Vegas's  left  fist  pounded  hard  on  the  table. 

"Greaser,  come  on!"  he  thundered. 

Then  Beasley,  with  desperate,  frantic  action,  jerked  for 
his  gun. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

FOR  Helen  Rayner  that  brief,  dark  period  of  expul- 
sion from  her  home  had  become  a  thing  of  the  past 
almost  forgotten. 

Two  months  had  flown  by  on  the  wings  of  love  and  work 
and  the  joy  of  finding  her  place  there  in  the  West.  All 
her  old  men  had  been  only  too  glad  of  the  opportunity  to 
come  back  to  her,  and  under  Dale  and  Roy  Beeman  a 
different  and  prosperous  order  marked  the  life  of  the 
ranch. 

Helen  nad  made  changes  in  the  house  by  altering  the 
arrangement  of  rooms  and  adding  a  new  section.  Only 
once  had  she  ventured  into  the  old  dining-room  where 
Las  Vegas  Carmichael  had  sat  down  to  that  fatal  dinner 
for  Beasley.  She  made  a  store-room  of  it,  and  a  place 
she  would  never  again  enter. 

Helen  was  happy,  almost  too  happy,  she  thought,  and 
therefore  made  more  than  needful  of  the  several  bitter 
drops  in  her  sweet  cup  of  life.  Carmichael  had  ridden 
out  of  Pine,  ostensibly  on  the  trail  of  the  Mexicans  who 
had  executed  Beasley's  commands.  The  last  seen  of  him 
had  been  reported  from  Show  Down,  where  he  had  ap- 
peared red-eyed  and  dangerous,  like  a  hound  on  a  scent. 
Then  two  months  had  flown  by  without  a  word. 

Dale  had  shaken  his  head  doubtfully  when  interrogated 
about  the  cowboy's  absence.  It  would  be  just  like  Las 
Vegas  never  to  be  heard  of  again.  Also  it  would  be  more 
like  him  to  remain  away  until  all  trace  of  his  drunken, 
savage  spell  had  departed  from  him  and  had  been  for- 
gotten by  his  friends.  Bo  took  his  disappearance  ap- 
parently less  to  heart  than  Helen.  But  Bo  grew  more 

368 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

restless,  wilder,  and  more  wilful  than  ever.  Helen 
thought  she  guessed  Bo's  secret;  and  once  she  ventured 
a  hint  concerning  Carmichael's  return. 

"If  Tom  doesn't  come  back  pretty  soon  I'll  marry  Milt 
Dale,"  retorted  Bo,  tauntingly. 

This  fired  Helen's  cheeks  with  red. 

"But,  child,"  she  protested,  half  angry,  half  grave. 
"Milt  and  I  are  engaged." 

"Sure.  Only  you're  so  slow.  There's  many  a  slip — 
you  know." 

"Bo,  I  tell  you  Tom  will  come  back,"  replied  Helen, 
earnestly.  "  I  feel  it.  There  was  something  fine  in  that 
cowboy.  He  understood  me  better  than  you  or  Milt, 
either.  . .  .  And  he  was  perfectly  wild  in  love  with  you." 

"Oh!    Washer' 

"Very  much  more  than  you  deserved,  Bo  Rayner." 

Then  occurred  one  of  Bo's  sweet,  bewildering,  unex- 
pected transformations.  Her  defiance,  resentment,  re- 
belliousness, vanished  from  a  softly  agitated  face. 

"Oh,  Nell,  I  know  that.  .  .  .  You  just  watch  me  if  I 
ever  get  another  chance  at  him!  .  .  .  Then — maybe  he'd 
never  drink  again!" 

"  Bo,  be  happy — and  be  good.  Don't  ride  off  any  more 
— don't  tease  the  boys.  It  '11  all  come  right  in  the  end." 

Bo  recovered  her  equanimity  quickly  enough. 

"Humph!  You  can  afford  to  be  cheerful.  You've  got 
a  man  who  can't  live  when  you're  out  of  his  sight.  He's 
like  a  fish  on  dry  land.  .  .  .  And  you — why,  once  you  were 
an  old  pessimist!" 

Bo  was  not  to  be  consoled  or  changed.  Helen  could 
only  sigh  and  pray  that  her  convictions  would  be  verified. 

The  first  day  of  July  brought  an  early  thunder-storm, 
just  at  sunrise.  It  roared  and  flared  and  rolled  away, 
leaving  a  gorgeous  golden  cloud  pageant  in  the  sky  and 
a  fresh,  sweetly  smelling,  glistening  green  range  that  de- 
lighted Helen's  eye. 

369 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Birds  were  twittering  in  the  arbors  and  bees  were  hum- 
ming in  the  flowers.  From  the  fields  down  along  the 
brook  came  a  blended  song  of  swamp-blackbird  and 
meadow-lark.  A  clarion-voiced  burro  split  the  air  with 
his  coarse  and  homely  bray.  The  sheep  were  bleating, 
and  a  soft  baa  of  little  lambs  came  sweetly  to  Helen's 
ears.  She  went  her  usual  rounds  with  more  than  usual 
zest  and  thrill.  Everywhere  was  color,  activity,  life. 
The  wind  swept  warm  and  pine-scented  down  from  the 
mountain  heights,  now  black  and  bold,  and  the  great 
green  slopes  seemed  to  call  to  her. 

At  that  very  moment  she  came  suddenly  upon  Dale, 
in  his  shirt-sleeves,  dusty  and  hot,  standing  motionless, 
gazing  at  the  distant  mountains.  Helen's  greeting  startled 
him. 

"I — I  was  just  looking  away  yonder,"  he  said,  smiling. 
She  thrilled  at  the  clear,  wonderful  light  of  his  eyes. 

"So  was  I — a  moment  ago,"  she  replied,  wistfully. 
"Do  you  miss  the  forest — very  much?" 

"Nell,  I  miss  nothing.  But  I'd  like  to  ride  with  you 
under  the  pines  once  more." 

"We'll  go,  "she  cried. 

"When?"  he  asked,  eagerly. 

"Oh — soon!"  And  then  with  flushed  face  and  down- 
cast eyes  she  passed  on.  For  long  Helen  had  cherished  a 
fond  hope  that  she  might  be  married  in  Paradise  Park, 
where  she  had  fallen  in  love  with  Dale  and  had  realized 
herself.  But  she  had  kept  that  hope  secret.  Dale's 
eager  tone,  his  flashing  eyes,  had  made  her  feel  that  her 
secret  was  there  in  her  telltale  face. 

As  she  entered  the  lane  leading  to  the  house  she  en- 
countered one  of  the  new  stable-boys  driving  a  pack-mule. 

"Jim,  whose  pack  is  that?"  she  asked. 

"  Ma'am,  I  dunno,  but  I  heard  him  tell  Roy  he  reckoned 
his  name  was  mud,"  replied  the  boy,  smiling. 

Helen's  heart  gave  a  quick  throb.  That  sounded  like 
\as  Vegas.  She  hurried  on,  and  upon  entering  the  court- 

370 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

yard  she  espied  Roy  Beeman  holding  the  halter  of  a  beau- 
tiful, wild-looking  mustang.  There  was  another  horse 
with  another  man,  who  was  in  the  act  of  dismounting  on 
the  far  side.  When  he  stepped  into  better  view  Helen 
recognized  Las  Vegas.  And  he  saw  her  at  the  same 
instant. 

Helen  did  not  look  up  again  until  she  was  near  the  porch. 
She  had  dreaded  this  meeting,  yet  she  was  so  glad  that  she 
could  have  cried  aloud. 

"Miss  Helen,  I  shore  am  glad  to  see  you,*'  he  said, 
standing  bareheaded  before  her,  the  same  young,  frank- 
faced  cowboy  she  had  seen  first  from  the  train. 

"Tom!"  she  exclaimed,  and  offered  her  hands. 

He  wrung  them  hard  while  he  looked  at  her.  The 
swift  woman's  glance  Helen  gave  in  return  seemed  to 
drive  something  dark  and  doubtful  out  of  her  heart. 
This  was  the  same  boy  she  had  known — whom  she  had 
liked  so  well — who  had  won  her  sister's  love.  Helen 
imagined  facing  him  thus  was  like  awakening  from  a 
vague  nightmare  of  doubt.  Carmichael's  face  was  clean, 
fresh,  young,  with  its  healthy  tan;  it  wore  the  old  glad 
smile,  cool,  easy,  and  natural;  his  eyes  were  like  Dale's — 
penetrating,  clear  as  crystal,  without  a  shadow.  What 
had  evil,  drink,  blood,  to  do  with  the  real  inherent  nobility 
of  this  splendid  specimen  of  Western  hardihood?  Wher- 
ever he  had  been,  whatever  he  had  done  during  that  long 
absence,  he  had  returned  long  separated  from  that  wild 
and  savage  character  she  could  now  forget.  Perhaps 
there  would  never  again  be  call  for  it. 

"How's  my  girl?"  he  asked,  just  as  naturally  as  if  he 
had  been  gone  a  few  days  on  some  errand  of  his  employer's. 

"Bo?  Oh,  she's  well— fine.  I— I  rather  think  she'll 
be  glad  to  see  you,"  replied  Helen,  warmly. 

"An'  how's  thet  big  Indian,  Dale?"  he  drawled. 

"Well,  too— I'm  sure." 

"Reckon  I  got  back  heah  in  time  to  see  you-all  mar* 
tied?" 

371 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"  I — I  assure  you  I — no  one  around  here  has  been  mar- 
ried yet,"  replied  Helen,  with  a  blush. 

"Thet  shore  is  fine.  Was  some  worried,"  he  said, 
lazily.  "I've  been  chasin'  wild  hosses  over  in  New  Mex- 
ico, an'  I  got  after  this  heah  blue  roan.  He  kept  me  chasm' 
him  fer  a  spell.  I've  fetched  him  back  for  Bo." 

Helen  looked  at  the  mustang  Roy  was  holding,  to  be  in- 
stantly delighted.  He  was  a  roan  almost  blue  in  color, 
neither  large  nor  heavy,  but  powerfully  built,  clean- 
limbed, and  racy,  with  a  long  mane  and  tail,  black  as  coal, 
and  a  beautiful  head  that  made  Helen  love  him  at  once. 

"Well,  I'm  jealous,"  declared  Helen,  archly.  "I  never 
did  see  such  a  pony." 

"I  reckoned  you'd  never  ride  any  hoss  but  Ranger," 
said  Las  Vegas. 

"No,  I  never  will.  But  I  can  be  jealous,  anyhow, 
can't  I?" 

"Shore.  An'  I  reckon  if  you  say  you're  goin'  to  have 
him — wal,  Bo  'd  be  funny,"  he  drawled. 

"I  reckon  she  would  be  funny,"  retorted  Helen.  She 
was  so  happy  that  she  imitated  his  speech.  She  wanted 
to  hug  him.  It  was  too  good  to  be  true — the  return  of 
this  cowboy.  He  understood  her.  He  had  come  back 
with  nothing  that  could  alienate  her.  He  had  apparently 
forgotten  the  terrible  r61e  he  had  accepted  and  the  doom 
he  had  meted  out  to  her  enemies.  That  moment  was 
wonderful  for  Helen  in  its  revelation  of  the  strange  sig- 
nificance of  the  West  as  embodied  in  this  cowboy.  He 
was  great.  But  he  did  not  know  that. 

Then  the  door  of  the  living-room  opened,  and  a  sweet, 
high  voice  pealed  out: 

"Roy!    Oh,  what  a  mustang!    Whose  is  he?" 

"Wal,  Bo,  if  all  I  hear  is  so  he  belongs  to  you,"  replied 
Roy,  with  a  huge  grin. 

Bo  appeared  in  the  door.  She  stepped  out  upon  the 
porch.  She  saw  the  cowboy.  The  excited  flash  of  her 
pretty  face  vanished  as  she  paled. 

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THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"Bo,  I  shore  am  glad  to  see  y6u,"  drawled  Las  Vegas, 
as  he  stepped  forward,  sombrero  in  hand.  Helen  could 
not  see  any  sign  of  confusion  in  him.  But,  indeed,  she 
saw  gladness.  Then  she  expected  to  behold  Bo  run  right 
into  the  cowboy's  arms.  It  appeared,  however,  that  she 
was  doomed  to  disappointment. 

"Tom,  I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  she  replied. 

They  shook  hands  as  old  friends. 

"You're  lookin'  right  fine,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  I'm  well.  .  .  .  And  how  have  you  been  these  six 
months?"  she  queried. 

" Reckon  I  thought  it  was  longer,"  he  drawled.  "Wai, 
I'm  pretty  tip-top  now,  but  I  was  laid  up  with  heart 
trouble  for  a  spell." 

"Heart  trouble?"  she  echoed,  dubiously. 

"Shore.  ...  I  ate  too  much  over  heah  in  New  Mexico." 

"It's  no  news  to  me — where  your  heart's  located," 
laughed  Bo.  Then  she  ran  off  the  porch  to  see  the  blue 
mustang.  She  walked  round  and  round  him,  clasping 
her  hands  in  sheer  delight. 

"Bo,  he's  a  plumb  dandy,"  said  Roy.  "Never  seen  a 
prettier  hoss.  He'll  run  like  a  streak.  An'  he's  got  good 
eyes.  He'll  be  a  pet  some  day.  But  I  reckon  he'll  always 
be  spunky  " 

Bo  ventured  to  step  closer,  and  at  last  got  a  hand  on 
the  mustang,  and  then  another.  She  smoothed  his  quiver- 
ing neck  and  called  softly  to  him,  until  he  submitted  tc 
her  hold. 

"What's  his  name?"  she  asked. 

"Blue  somethin'  or  other,"  replied  Roy. 

"Tom,  has  my  new  mustang  a  name?"  asked  Bo,  turn- 
ing to  the  cowboy. 

"Shore." 

"What  then?" 

"Wai,  I  named  him  Blue-Bo,"  answered  Las  Vegas> 
with  a  smile. 

"Blue-Boy?" 

373 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

"Nope.  He's  named  after  you.  An*  I  chased  him, 
roped  him,  broke  him  all  myself." 

"Very  well.  Blue-Bo  he  is,  then.  .  .  .  And  he's  a  won- 
derful darling  horse.  Oh,  Nell,  just  look  at  him.  .  .  .  Tom, 
I  can't  thank  you  enough." 

"  Reckon  I  don'twant  any  thanks, "drawled  the  cowboy. 
"  But  see  heah,  Bo,  you  shore  got  to  live  up  to  conditions 
before  you  ride  him." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Bo,  who  was  startled  by  his  slow, 
cool,  meaning  tone,  of  voice. 

Helen  delighted  in  looking  at  Las  Vegas  then.  He  had 
never  appeared  to  better  advantage.  So  cool,  careless, 
and  assured!  He  seemed  master  of  a  situation  in  which 
his  terms  must  be  accepted.  Yet  he  might  have  been 
actuated  by  a  cowboy  motive  beyond  the  power  of  Helen 
to  divine. 

"Bo  Rayner,"  drawled  Las  Vegas,  "thet  blue  mustang 
will  be  yours,  an'  you  can  ride  him — when  you're  Mrs. 
Tom  Carmichael!" 

Never  had  he  spoken  a  softer,  more  drawling  speech, 
nor  gazed  at  Be  more  mildly.  Roy  seemed  thunder- 
struck. Helen  endeavored  heroically  to  restrain  her  de- 
licious, bursting  glee.  Bo's  wide  eyes  stared  at  her  lover 
— darkened — dilated.  Suddenly  she  left  the  mustang  to 
confront  the  cowboy  where  he  lounged  on  the  porch  steps. 

"Do  you  mean  that?"  she  cried. 

"Shore  do." 

"Bah!  It's  only  a  magnificent  bluff,"  she  retorted. 
"You're  only  in  fun.  It's  your — your  darned  nerve!" 

"Why,  Bo,"  began  Las  Vegas,  reproachfully.  "You 
shore  know  I'm  not  the  four-flusher  kind.  Never  got 
away  with  a  bluff  in  my  life!  An'  I'm  jest  in  daid  earnest 
aboot  this  heah." 

All  the  same,  signs  were  not  wanting  in  his  mobile  face 
that  he  was  almost  unable  to  restrain  his  mirth. 

Helen  realized  then  that  Bo  saw  through  the  cowboy— 
that  the  ultimatum  was  only  one  of  his  trick? 

374 


THE  MAN  W   THE  FOREST 

"It  is  a  bluff  and  I  call  you!"  declared  Bo,  ringingly. 

Las  Vegas  suddenly  awoke  to  consequences.  He  es- 
sayed to  speak,  but  she  was  so  wonderful  then,  so  white 
and  blazing-eyed,  that  he  was  stricken  mute. 

"I'll  ride  Blue-Bo  this  afternoon,"  deliberately  stated 
the  girl. 

Las  Vegas  had  wit  enough  to  grasp  her  meaning,  and 
he  seemed  about  to  collapse. 

"Very  well,  you  can  make  me  Mrs.  Tom  Car- 
michael  to-day — this  morning — just  before  dinner.  .  .  . 
Go  get  a  preacher  to  marry  us — and  make  yourself 
look  a  more  presentable  bridegroom — unless  it  was  only 
a  bluff!" 

Her  imperiousness  changed  as  the  tremendous  portent 
of  her  words  seemed  to  make  Las  Vegas  a  blank,  stone 
image  of  a  man.  With  a  wild-rose  color  suffusing  her 
face,  she  swiftly  bent  over  him,  kissed  him,  and  flashed 
away  into  the  house.  Her  laugh  pealed  back,  and  it 
thrilled  Helen,  so  deep  and  strange  was  it  for  the  wilful 
sister,  so  wild  and  merry  and  full  of  joy. 

It  was  then  that  Roy  Beeman  recovered  from  his 
paralysis,  to  let  out  such  a  roar  of  mirth  as  to  frighten  tha 
horses.  Helen  was  laughing,  and  crying,  too,  but  laughing 
mostly.  Las  Vegas  Carmichael  was  a  sigh!;  for  the  gods 
to  behold.  Bo's  kiss  had  undamped  what  had  bound 
him.  The  sudden  truth,  undeniable,  insupportable,  glori- 
ous, made  him  a  madman. 

"Bluff— she  called  me— ride  Blue-Bo  safternoon!"  he 
raved,  reaching  wildly  for  Helen.  "Mrs. — Tom — Car- 
michael— before  dinner — preacher — presentable  bride- 
groom! .  .  .  Aw!  I'm  drunk  again!  I — who  swore  off — 
forever!" 

"No,  Tom,  you're  just  happy,"  said  Helen. 

Between  her  and  Roy  the  cowboy  was  at  length  per- 
suaded to  accept  the  situation  and  to  see  his  wonderful 
opportunity. 

"Now — now,  Miss  Helen — what  'd  Bo  mean  by  pre- 
375 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

presentable  bridegroom?  .  .  .  Presents?  Lord,  I'm  clean 
busted  flat!" 

"  She  meant  you  must  dress  up  in  your  best,  of  course," 
replied  Helen. 

"  Where  'n  earth  will  I  get  a  preacher? . . .  Show  Down's 
forty  miles.  .  .  .  Can't  ride  there  in  time.  .  .  .  Roy,  I've 
gotta  have  a  preacher.  .  .  .  Life  or  death  deal  fer  me." 

"  Wai,  old  man,  if  you'll  brace  up  I'll  marry  you  to  Bo," 
said  Roy,  with  his  glad  grin. 

"Aw!"  gasped  Las  Vegas,  as  if  at  the  coming  of  a  sud- 
den beautiful  hope. 

"Tom,  I'm  a  preacher,"  replied  Roy,  now  earnestly. 
"You  didn't  know  thet,  but  I  am.  An'  I  can  marry  you 
an'  Bo  as  good  as  any  one,  an'  tighter  'n  most." 

Las  Vegas  reached  for  his  friend  as  a  drowning  man 
might  have  reached  for  solid  rock. 

"Roy,  can  you  really  marry  them — with  my  Bible — 
and  the  service  of  my  church?"  asked  Helen,  a  happy 
hope  flushing  her  face. 

"Wai,  indeed  I  can.  I've  married  more  'n  one  couple 
whose  religion  wasn't  mine." 

"B-b-before — d-d-din-ner ! "  burst  out  Las  Vegas,  like 
a  stuttering  idiot. 

"I  reckon.  Come  on,  now,  an'  make  yourself  pre-sent- 
tible,"  said  Roy.  "Miss  Helen,  you  tell  Bo  thet  it's  all 
settled." 

He  picked  up  the  halter  on  the  blue  mustang  and 
turned  away  toward  the  corrals.  Las  Vegas  put  the  bridle 
of  his  horse  over  his  arm,  and  seemed  to  be  following  in 
a  trance,  with  his  dazed,  rapt  face  held  high. 

"Bring  Dale,"  called  Helen,  softly  after  them. 

So  it  came  about  as  naturally  as  it  was  wonderful  that 
Bo  rode  the  blue  mustang  before  the  afternoon  ended. 

Las  Vegas  disobeyed  his  first  orders  from  Mrs.  Tom 
Carmichael  and  rode  out  after  her  toward  the  green-rising 
range.  Helen  seemed  impelled  to  follow.  She  did  not 

376 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

need  to  ask  Dale  the  second  time.  They  rode  swiftly, 
but  never  caught  up  with  Bo  and  Las  Vegas,  whose  riding 
resembled  their  happiness. 

Dale  read  Helen's  mind,  or  else  his  own  thoughts  were 
in  harmony  with  hers,  for  he  always  seemed  to  speak 
what  she  was  thinking.  And  as  they  rode  homeward  he 
asked  her  in  his  quiet  way  if  they  could  not  spare  a  few 
days  to  visit  his  old  camp. 

"And  take  Bo— and  Tom?  Oh,  of  all  things  I'd  like 
to,"  she  replied. 

"Yes — an'  Roy,  too,"  added  Dale,  significantly. 

"Of  course,"  said  Helen,  lightly,  as  if  she  had  not 
caught  his  meaning.  But  she  turned  her  eyes  away, 
while  her  heart  thumped  disgracefully  and  all  her  body 
was  aglow.  "Will  Tom  and  Bo  go?" 

"It  was  Tom  who  got  me  to  ask  you,"  replied  Dale. 
"John  an'  Hal  can  look  aftei  the  men  while  we're 
gone." 

"Oh — so  Tom  put  it  in  your  head?  I  guess — maybe — 
I  won't  go." 

"It  is  always  in  my  mind,  Nell,"  he  said,  with  his  slow 
seriousness.  "I'm  goin*  to  work  all  my  life  for  you. 
But  I'll  want  to  an'  need  to  go  back  to  the  woods  often. 
.  .  .  An'  if  you  ever  stoop  to  marry  me — an'  make  me 
the  richest  of  men — you'll  have  to  marry  me  up  there 
where  I  fell  in  love  with  you." 

"Ah!  Did  Las  Vegas  Tom  Carmichael  say  that,  too?" 
inquired  Helen,  softly. 

"Nell,  do  you  want  to  know  what  Las  Vegas  said?" 

"By  all  means." 

"He  said  thi  — an'  not  an  hour  ago.  'Milt,  old  hoss, 
let  me  give  you  a  hunch.  I'm  a  man  of  family  now — an* 
I've  been  a  devil  with  the  wimmen  in  my  day.  I  can  see 
through  'em.  Don't  marry  Nell  Rayner  in  or  near  the 
house  where  I  killed  Beasley  She'd  remember.  An' 
don't  let  her  remember  thet  day.  Go  off  into  the  woods. 
Paradise  Park!  Bo  an'  me  will  go  with  you." 
25  377 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Helen  gave  him  her  hand,  while  they  walked  the  horses 
homeward  in  the  long  sunset  shadows.  In  the  fullness  of 
that  happy  hour  she  had  time  for  a  grateful  wonder  at  the 
keen  penetration  of  the  cowboy  Carmichael.  Dale  had 
saved  her  life,  but  it  was  Las  Vegas  who  had  saved  her 
happiness. 

Not  many  days  later,  when  again  the  afternoon  shadows 
were  slanting  low,  Helen  rode  out  upon  the  promontory 
where  the  dim  trail  zigzagged  far  above  Paradise  Park. 

Roy  was  singing  as  he  drove  the  pack-burros  down  the 
slope;  Bo  and  Las  Vegas  were  trying  to  ride  the  trail  two 
abreast,  so  they  could  hold  hands;  Dale  had  dismounted 
to  stand  beside  Helen's  horse,  as  she  gazed  down  the 
shaggy  black  slopes  to  the  beautiful  wild  park  with  its 
gray  meadows  and  shining  ribbons  of  brooks. 

It  was  July,  and  there  were  no  golden-red  glorious 
flames  and  blazes  of  color  such  as  lingered  in  Helen's 
memory.  Black  spruce  slopes  and  green  pines  and  white 
streaks  of  aspens  and  lacy  waterfall  of  foam  and  dark 
outcroppings  of  rock — these  colors  and  forms  greeted  her 
gaze  with  all  the  old  enchantment.  Wildness,  beauty, 
and  loneliness  were  there,  the  same  as  ever,  immutable, 
like  the  spirit  of  those  heights. 

Helen  would  fain  have  lingered  longer,  but  the  others 
called,  and  Ranger  impatiently  snorted  his  sense  of  the 
grass  and  water  far  below.  And  she  knew  that  when  she 
climbed  there  again  to  the  wide  outlook  she  would  be 
another  woman. 

"Nell,  come  on,"  said  Dale,  as  he  led  on.  "It's  better 
to  look  up." 

The  sun  had  just  sunk  behind  the  ragged  fringe  of 
mountain-rim  when  those  three  strong  and  efficient  men 
of  the  open  had  pitched  camp  and  had  prepared  a  bounti- 
ful supper. 

Then  Roy  Beeman  took  out  the  little  worn  Bible  which 

378 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Helen  had  given  him  to  use  when  he  married  Bo,  and  as 
he  opened  it  a  light  changed  his  dark  face. 

"Come,  Helen  an'  Dale,"  he  said. 

They  arose  to  stand  before  him.  And  he  married  them 
there  under  the  great,  stately  pines,  with  the  fragrant 
blue  smoke  curling  upward,  and  the  wind  singing  through 
the  branches,  while  the  waterfall  murmured  its  low,  soft, 
dreamy  music,  and  from  the  daik  slope  came  the  wild, 
lonely  cry  of  a  wolf,  full  of  the  hunger  for  life  and  a  mate. 

"Let  us  pray,"  said  Roy,  as  he  closed  the  Bible,  and 
knelt  with  them. 

"There  is  only  one  God,  an'  Him  I  beseech  in  my  hum- 
ble office  for  the  woman  an'  man  I  have  just  wedded  in 
holy  bonds.  Bless  them  an'  watch  them  an'  keep  them 
through  all  the  comin'  years.  Bless  the  sons  of  this 
strong  man  of  the  woods  an*  make  them  like  him,  with 
love  an'  understandin*  of  the  source  from  which  life  comes. 
Bless  the  daughters  of  this  woman  an'  send  with  them 
more  of  her  love  an'  soul,  which  must  be  the  softenin'  an* 
the  salvation  of  the  hard  West.  O  Lord,  blaze  the  dim, 
dark  trail  for  them  through  the  unknown  forest  of  life! 
O  Lord,  lead  the  way  across  the  naked  range  of  the  future 
no  mortal  knows!  We  ask  in  Thy  name!  Amen." 

When  the  preacher  stood  up  again  and  raised  the  couple 
from  their  kneeling  posture,  it  seemed  that  a  grave  and 
solemn  personage  had  left  him.  This  young  man  was 
again  the  dark-faced,  clear-eyed  Roy,  droll  and  dry,  with 
the  enigmatic  smile  on  his  lips. 

"Mrs.  Dale,"  he  said,  taking  her  hands,  "I  wish  you 
joy.  .  .  .  An'  now,  after  this  here,  my  crownin'  service  in 
your  behalf — I  reckon  I'll  claim  a  reward." 

Then  he  kissed  her.  Bo  came  next  with  her  warm  and 
loving  felicitations,  and  the  cowboy,  with  characteristic 
action,  also  made  at  Helen. 

"Nell,  shore  it's  the  only  chance  I'll  ever  have  to  kiss 
you,"  he  drawled.  "Because  when  this  heah  big  Indian 
once  finds  out  what  kissin'  is — !" 

379 


THE  MAN  OF   THE  FOREST 

Las  Vegas  then  proved  how  swift  and  hearty  he  could  be 
upon  occasions.  All  this  left  Helen  red  and  confused  and 
unutterably  happy .  She  appreciated  Dale's  state.  His  eyes 
reflected  the  precious  treasure  which  manifestly  he  saw,  but 
realization  of  ownership  had  not  yet  become  demonstrable. 

Then  with  gay  speech  and  happy  laugh  and  silent  look 
these  five  partook  of  the  supper.  When  it  was  finished 
Roy  made  known  his  intention  to  leave.  They  all  pro- 
tested and  coaxed,  but  to  no  avail.  He  only  laughed  and 
went  on  saddling  his  horse. 

"Roy,  please  stay,"  implored  Helen.  "The  day's 
almost  ended.  Ycu're  tired." 

"  Nope.  I'll  never  be  no  third  party  when  there's  only 
two." 

"But  there  are  four  of  us." 

"Didn't  I  just  make  you  an'  Dale  one?  .  .  .  An',  Mrs. 
Dale,  you  forget  I've  been  married  more  'n  once." 

Helen  found  herself  confronted  by  an  unanswerable  side 
of  the  argument.  Las  Vegas  rolled  on  the  grass  in  his 
mirth.  Dale  looked  strange. 

"Roy,  then  that's  why  you're  so  nice,"  said  Bo,  with  a 
little  devil  in  her  eyes.  "Do  you  know  I  had  my  mind 
made  up  if  Tom  hadn't  come  around  I  was  going  to  make 
up  to  you,  Roy. ...  I  sure  was.  What  number  wife  would 
I  have  been?" 

It  always  took  Bo  to  turn  the  tables  on  anybody.  Roy 
looked  mightily  embarrassed.  And  the  laugh  was  on  him. 
He  did  not  face  them  again  until  he  had  mounted. 

"Las  Vegas,  I've  done  my  best  for  you — hitched  you  to 
thet  blue-eyed  girl  the  best  I  know  how,"  he  declared. 
"But  I  shore  ain't  guaranteein'  nothin'.  You'd  better 
build  a  corral  for  her." 

"Why,  Roy,  you  shore  don't  savvy  the  way  to  break 
these  wild  ones,"  drawled  Las  Vegas.  "Bo  will  be  eatin* 
out  of  my  hand  in  about  a  week." 

Bo's  blue  eyes  expressed  an  eloquent  doubt  as  to  this 
extraordinary  claim. 

380 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

"Good-by,  friends,"  said  Roy,  and  rode  away  to  disap- 
pear in  the  spruces. 

Thereupon  Bo  and  Las  Vegas  forgot  Roy,  and  Dale 
and  Helen,  the  camp  chores  to  be  done,  and  everything 
else  except  themselves.  Helen's  first  wifely  duty  was  to 
insist  that  she  should  and  could  and  would  help  her  hus- 
band with  the  work  of  cleaning  up  after  the  sumptuous 
supper.  Before  they  had  finished  a  sound  startled  them. 
It  came  from  Roy,  evidently  high  on  the  darkening  slope, 
and  was  a  long,  mellow  pealing  halloo,  that  rang  on  the 
cool  air,  burst  the  dreamy  silence,  and  rapped  across  from 
slope  to  slope  and  cliff  to  cliff,  to  lose  its  power  and  die 
away  hauntingly  in  the  distant  recesses. 

Dale  shook  his  head  as  if  he  did  not  care  to  attempt  a 
reply  to  that  beautiful  call.  Silence  once  again  enfolded 
the  park,  and  twilight  seemed  to  be  born  of  the  air,  drift- 
ing downward. 

"Nell,  do  you  miss  anythin'?"  asked  Dale. 

"No.  Nothing  in  all  the  world,"  she  murmured.  "I 
am  happier  than  I  ever  dared  pray  to  be." 

"I  don't  mean  people  or  things.     I  mean  my  pets." 

"Ah!     I  had  forgotten Milt,  where  are  they?" 

"Gone  back  to  the  wild,"  he  said.  "They  had  to  live 
in  my  absence.  An'  I've  been  away  long." 

Just  then  the  brooding  silence,  with  its  soft  murmur  of 
falling  water  and  faint  sigh  of  wind  in  the  pines,  was 
broken  by  a  piercing  scream,  high,  quivering,  like  that  of 
a  woman  in  exquisite  agony. 

"That's  Tom!"  exclaimed  Dale. 

"Oh — I  was  so — so  frightened!"  whispered  Helen. 

Bo  came  running,  with  Las  Vegas  at  her  heels. 

"  Milt,  that  was  your  tame  cougar,"  cried  Bo,  excitedly. 
"Oh,  I'll  never  forget  him!  I'll  hear  those  cries  in  my 
dreams!" 

"Yes,  it  was  Tom,"  said  Dale,  thoughtfully.  "But  I 
never  heard  him  cry  just  like  that." 

"Oh,  call  him  in!" 

38i 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

Dale  whistled  and  called,  but  Tom  did  not  come.  Then 
the  hunter  stalked  off  in  the  gloom  to  call  from  different 
points  under  the  slope.  After  a  while  he  returned  without 
the  cougar.  And  at  that  moment,  from  far  up  the  dark 
ravine,  drifted  down  the  same  wild  cry,  only  changed  by 
distance,  strange  and  tragic  in  its  meaning. 

"He  scented  us.  He  remembers.  But  he'll  never  come 
back,"  said  Dale. 

Helen  felt  stirred  anew  with  the  convictions  of  Dale's 
deep  knowledge  of  life  and  nature.  And  her  imagination 
seemed  to  have  wings.  How  full  and  perfect  her  trust, 
her  happiness  in  the  realization  that  her  love  and  her 
future,  her  children,  and  perhaps  grandchildren,  would 
come  under  the  guidance  of  such  a  man!  Only  a  little 
had  she  begun  to  comprehend  the  secrets  of  good  and  ill 
in  their  relation  to  the  laws  of  nature.  Ages  before  men 
had  lived  on  the  earth  there  had  been  the  creatures  of  the 
wilderness,  and  the  holes  of  the  rocks,  and  the  nests  of  the 
trees,  and  rain,  frost,  heat,  dew,  sunlight  and  night,  storm 
and  calm,  the  honey  of  the  wildflower  and  the  instinct  of 
the  bee — all  the  beautiful  and  multiple  forms  of  life  with 
their  inscrutable  design.  To  know  something  of  them 
and  to  love  them  was  to  be  close  to  the  kingdom  of  earth 
— perhaps  to  the  greater  kingdom  of  heaven.  For  what- 
ever breathed  and  moved  was  a  part  of  that  creation. 
The  coo  of  the  dove,  the  lichen  on  the  mossy  rock,  the 
mourn  of  a  hunting  wolf,  and  the  murmur  of  the  water- 
fall, the  ever-green  and  growing  tips  of  the  spruces,  and 
the  thunderbolts  along  the  battlements  of  the  heights — 
these  one  and  all  must  be  actuated  by  the  great  spirit — 
that  incalculable  thing  in  the  universe  which  had  pro- 
duced man  and  soul. 

And  there  in  the  starlight,  under  the  wide-gnarled 
pines,  sighing  low  with  the  wind,  Helen  sat  with  Dale  on 
the  old  stone  that  an  avalanche  of  a  million  years  past 
had  flung  from  the  rampart  above  to  se>  ve  as  camp- table 

382 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

and  bench  for  lovers  in  the  wilderness;  the  sweet  scent 
of  spruce  mingled  with  the  fragrance  of  wood-smoke  blown 
in  their  faces.  How  white  the  stars,  and  calm  and  true! 
How  they  blazed  their  single  task!  A  coyote  yelped  off 
on  the  south  slope,  dark  now  as  midnight.  A  bit  of 
weathered  rock  rolled  and  tapped  from  shelf  to  shelf.  And 
the  wind  moaned.  Helen  felt  all  the  sadness  and  mystery 
and  nobility  of  this  lonely  fastness,  and  full  on  her  heart 
rested  the  supreme  consciousness  that  all  would  some  day 
be  well  with  the  troubled  world  beyond. 

"Nell,  I'll  homestead  this  park,"  said  Dale.  "Then 
it  '11  always  be  ours." 

"  Homestead !  What's  that ?  "  murmured  Helen,  dream- 
ily. The  word  sounded  sweet. 

"The  government  will  give  land  to  men  who  locate  an* 
build,"  replied  Dale.  "We'll  run  up  a  log  cabin." 

"And  come  here  often.  .  .  .  Paradise  Park!"  whispered 
Helen. 

Dale's  first  kisses  were  on  her  lips  then,  hard  and  cool 
and  clean,  like  the  life  of  the  man,  singularly  exalting  to 
her,  completing  her  woman's  strange  and  unutterable  joy 
of  the  hour,  and  rendering  her  mute. 

Bo's  melodious  laugh,  and  her  voice  with  its  old  mock- 
ery of  torment,  drifted  softly  on  the  night  breeze.  And 
the  cowboy's  "Aw,  Bo,"  drawling  his  reproach  and  long- 
ing, was  all  that  the  tranquil,  waiting  silence  needed. 

Paradise  Park  was  living  again  one  of  its  romances. 
Love  was  no  stranger  to  that  lonely  fastness.  Helen 
heard  in  the  whisper  of  the  wind  through  the  pine  the 
old-earth  story,  beautiful,  ever  new,  and  yet  eternal. 
She  thrilled  to  her  depths.  The  spar-pointed  spruces 
stood  up  black  and  clear  against  the  noble  stars.  All  that 
vast  solitude  breathed  and  waited,  charged  full  with  its 
secret,  ready  to  reveal  itself  to  her  tremulous  soul. 


THE   END 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


APR  1 2  RBHJ 

FEB2CT86      A. 

AUG26  1985REC'D 


50m-6,'67(H2523s8)2373 


STORED  AT  NRLF 


PS3513.R6545M36 


21 06  0021 1    2255 


